Stale M&M's
by thewalkerinme
Summary: FIRST in series. Season 4 to 5 P1. A story about a boy. "I recognise the walker that isn't wearing its glasses anymore. It's Patrick. My brother." FANART BY @andytweed FIND HER ON TUMBLR :D
1. The Separation

_If you're homophobic you may not belong here. But if not (or if you'd like to expand your horizons), then welcome to this fanfiction :)_

**Following the show's story line.**  
**1st in the series.**

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"Dude, they're stale," Patrick grimaces, a packet of M&amp;M's in his hand.

"So?" I scoff, snatching them from him. "There's nothing better around here." I split open the packet and stuff a handful of colour in my mouth. He's right, they are stale. But I'm too hungry to care. I've missed the feeling of chewing candy –when the chocolaty sweetness gets stuck in your teeth and you have to make a funny face to try and get it out. Trust me, it was an extremely underrated experience before all of this happened.

_This,_ as in, you know, _t__he Turn. _People getting sick, dying. . . coming back to eat the living. It's all disgustingly unsurprising by now, though.

My brother slings an arm over my shoulder, then yanks, and suddenly I'm getting the worst noogie of my whole damned life. "Get off, Pat!" I bark, struggling against him. "_Stopit_!"

He lets go when I dig my fingernails into his gut, laughing. "Ouch!"

I glare at him, shaking my head in an attempt to fix my hair –to no avail. A good shower would fix it, but we haven't been lucky enough for that in months. I mean, we try to stay clean –creeks, ponds, places like that. But it's never going to match up to a good shower.

It's been ten months since everything started; about May time now. Patrick and I've been on the road for around eight of them. Of course, we find camps, two so far, stay with them for a bit. But we always end up leaving –by choice or… well, not by choice. Biters suck, well, no, they bite. And bad people get in, so we run. It's tough, and we've only managed to survive because we're smart about it, and quiet, very quiet –you kind of have to be now. But we're okay. I think.

I empty the last few M&amp;M's into Patrick's open palm, and despite his earlier reluctance he eats every last one. My hand swipes across shelves, collecting any neglected cans or useful/entertaining junk into my backpack. Pat does the same on the other side. The place has been looted already, but whoever did it was rushing, so they left a few things. Granted, it's mostly just candy, but I'm not complaining. Definitely better than crappy Graham crackers.

"Come on, let's head out, Oliver." He spits on his glasses lens, rubs it with the hem of his shirt, then pushes the thick black spectacles over his nose again. I grunt in an attempt to zip up my backpack –a little over-packed, but that's good. "Oh. Did you find more inhalers?"

I nod, throwing my thumb towards the store's pharmacy. "Yup."

"Good."

I had an asthma attack a few days ago, so bad I ended up passing out. Patrick put me in the recovery position. I had no inhalers left and CPR's useless with closing airways, so all he could do was wait. It worked, obviously, seeing as I'm not a walking corpse. I ended up just waking up a few hours later with a headache and a worsened hatred for my stupid lungs.

Because out of everything in the world that I already suck at. I suck worst at breathing.

"_It was too close that time,"_ he said when I sat up, groaning and clutching my skull. My asthma's stress induced, mostly, and sudden excessive exercise doesn't help, making it basically the worst condition to suffer from in the middle of the apocalypse. But we get by, and at the moment I'm fine, so, yeah, it's fine.

We make our way towards the front, mouldy stains on the floor and ceiling, and overly-enthusiastic advertisement for OJ and free-range eggs on the walls.

"Wait."

Patrick stops, holds an arm out. I was looking in my backpack so I walk into him, catching myself with a gasp. Adrenaline smacks me in the face when I hear what's caught his attention.

Biters.

"Shit," I utter.

Patrick scowls at me. Even after almost a year since the Turn he's still insistent on filtered language. Mom was always very particular in the way we spoke; articulation and such, despite her growing up in Italy and having the strongest accent ever. After she died Patrick kind of made it his mission to annoy the fuck out of me about it all. I can't see why though.

My eyes roll and I pull him by the arm towards the back of the store. "Come on," I whisper, not particularly urgent. They're outside anyway and they have no reason to think anything's in here. "Find a back-door."

_Crack.  
Shrrk.  
Crakkk._

We freeze, hearts stopping. It's the glass in the doors, and the lazy growls. Pat and I spin around, staring staring staring. . .

"No," Patrick mutters to the air. "Don't you dare."

But the doors shatter. Loudly. The smash is bone shuddering. For a split moment I try to figure out why they want to get in here in the first place. They can't have seen or heard us come in. We were careful. We were safe. But that's when a rat suddenly scurries past us, answering my question. Then, too late, we realise what's about to come next. . . so the wall of dead tumble around the isle.

"Pat!"

"Oh no."

"Go!" I bark, grabbing his arm and yanking. The biters shriek, ambling after their bigger chase.

"There's no back door!" he shouts over the hissing and snapping jaws.

I search frantically. "Supply cupboard!"

Patrick pulls me into it by my collar, half strangling me, slamming the door behind us, and almost instantly the biters bang and growl against it. We both shove our backs against it, but the latch snaps. Panic poisons me when the door hinges begin to crack with the weight against them, too. I see the a window in front of us –small, but enough.

"Pat, the window!" My sneakers slip against the floor. The door shakes, giving. "_Ack._ Go!"

"No, you first. I got you!"

"No, I'm faster! As soon as we both –_nyak_– move, the door's gonna give! I'll be right behind you!" I watch the panic bleed across his expression, but he knows I'm right. So, finally, fighting the storm of conflict in his mind, he nods. "Ready?"

"Oliver," is his reply, terrified.

"Go!"

So he leaps, clambering over the cabinet under the window and throttling the latch on it.

"Quickly!" Rotten fingers curl around the frame, the fingernails cracked and split and long. "Get it!"

"It's stuck!" He shoves his whole weight against it. "_Urgh_!"

My feet slip, and with a yelp I spin around and shove myself as hard as I can against the door again, and it snaps shut, decaying fingers snapping off with a crunch, slapping to the floor at my sneakers. Bile rises to my throat.

"Got it!" Patrick grunts, and the window finally jolts open with a rotten _crack._

"Go!"

Push.  
Push!  
PUSH!

He's out, spinning around, hand out. "Come on! There's more out here!"

I launch, and the hisses and growls pour inside after me. _Don't look back,_ I tell myself, leaping onto the cabinet and throwing myself at the window. Patrick's hand is cold as ice when I grip onto it, his other, too, as it wraps around my arm. He pulls, grunting, and my legs kick out behind me, clambering. But a set of cold, decrepit, bloody fingers wrap around my ankle.

"Pat! It's got me!"

"NO!" Patrick bellows, losing purchase, and I'm slipping. Slipping and slipping and slipping. So I let go, knowing if I stay hanging from the window I'll get a set of teeth in my ankle, and I clatter to the floor of the supply cupboard. But then I realise I just killed myself, because I'd dropped my machete outside at Patrick's feet. Biters growl and grab for me, and I kick out desperately, picking myself up, standing atop the cabinet. But they grab, so I kick. Some stumble, fall over themselves, but one grabs my ankle mid-kick and shoves me to its face.

"Fuck."

I fall, hitting the cabinet so hard that the whole thing's knocked out from under me. It's ciaos. Frantic and desperate. I'm kicking and screaming, and the desk falls, protecting me, and I shove it forward, sending the biters tumbling away from me.

"My machete!"

"OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!"

I'm at my feet, grabbing the cabinet and shoving it into the biters again, making a barrier. Just, not a very stable one. There's five of them, more in the store.

"PAT!"

In the same moment I hear my machete clatter to the floor. I throw myself at it, the red handle familiar and hopeful in my palm, and soon I'm driving it through biter skulls. One. Two. Three. Cold blood splatters my face. I can hear Patrick grunting and huffing as he dispatches more biters outside.

"Pat!" A biter's head rocks to the side when my machete impales its throat. "Go!"

"I'm not leaving you!"

"Get out of there!"

I spot a plastic crate on the floor and grab it, quickly emptying the mouldy contents and shoving it against them, pushing them away from the door, and I run out, sprinting back through the store, my backpack slapping against my spine. But I flip head over heels, slipping over something small and wet and dead. The fucking rat. The back of my head hits the floor, and I gasp, swivelling around, and I see, past the biters coming after me, Patrick outside. He stabs another biter through the eye socket with his blade and turns to look for me, and when he does his expression widens.

"BEHIND YOU!"

"Wha..." I hear the growl. I feel the cold, rotten hands grab my shoulders. My spine hits the floor, shoved there, pulled, yanked, and its sour breath licks at my neck. "Gahh!" It spits blood in my face. "No!"

The biter topples over on top of me when my foot come up against its chest, barely missing it's rotten teeth, and I kick it in the head with a _squelch!_, rotting skin hanging from it's cheek. Grabbing my machete, I raise it above my head, then, as hard as I can, drive it down through the biter's neck.

Dead.

Then I'm running. Flying. I leap through the gaping hole in the door, my breath shortening, labouring, my windpipe swelling from exhaustion. But my lungs have to wait. _Findmybrotherfindmybrotherfindmybrother! _I stumble out into the street, my clothes sticking to my skin from the Georgian blaze. It was deserted when we got here. But now? What the hell? Biter are everywhere. I clamber around the store, dodging the dead arms that lunge for me, breathless and panicking and stumbling into the parking lot. But I stop dead in my tracks.

The parking lot.  
It's filled with them.

"PATRICK!" I bellow, attracting every biter in Georgia. "PATRICK!"

I keep screaming for him. Again and again. Until my lungs won't allow it anymore and I'm coughing so bad I see stars, asthma threatening to kill me before the biters do. But I don't have time to medicate, so I keep going, past the parking lot, aiming for the trees. Running and running. Farther and farther into the woods. Gasping for air that I cannot catch. My temples throb. Sweat pours down my face. Soon it becomes too much and my legs give out, and I'm plummeting to the dirt, mud coating my clothing and hands and knees. A fit of coughs wrack my whole body, choking into the earth, dirt gritting my cheek and mouth. I force myself to sit up, pulling my backpack off my shoulders, hurrying to grab the small cardboard box that'll have my release inside it.

I take the Ventolin, inhaling as much as my windpipe will allow, giving myself another few thousand sprays until I simply collapse to my back. My hands bury into my eyes and my throat opens again, slowly and then all at once. The relief is tremendous. But the exhaustion and panic is unbearable. So when I hear the ambling –stalking me– I force myself to my feet, strong enough now to keep going, and so that's what I do.

_I have to keep going, _I tell myself. _I have to find my brother._

* * *

Five months, alone.  
Five months, afraid.  
Five months, avoiding people.  
Five months, fighting the dead.  
Five months, drowning without him.

I never found Patrick. I searched for weeks. Left notes. Wrote signs on garage doors and shop windows. But nothing.

He's just gone. _Gonegonegonegone._

I found a beanie hat. It's dark grey. Found a dog, too. She was nice, but, well, I had to kill her because she tried to rip my throat out, so, I guess she wasn't all that nice after all. I was going to eat her, after, but I couldn't bring myself to. It's funny, huh? I can kill countless biters every day but I can't bring myself to eat a stupid dog.

_Is that a good thing or bad? **I guess it's a good thing, as long as you're still actually eating.** I'm eating. Looted that farmhouse the other day.** Hit the jackpot on that place.** I guess. Should last me a few more days. **Hey.** What? **You gonna get up yet?** Nope. **Why? **I don't want to._

Yeah. Another thing. I talk to myself. A lot. I don't think I do it aloud. Well, not much at least. I don't know how long I've been doing it either. It kind of just happened. Unsurprising, I guess. One day you just can't decide what flavour soup you want out of the two options you have on the shelf even though you'll end up taking both of them anyway and you just decide to ask... yourself. Well, that's how it started with me. I think. Well, that was the first time I became aware of it at least.

_**Come on, Oliver. Get up.**_

I open my eyes and sigh. It's a ceiling, a dark and mouldy crack stretching across it that spells SUP. _Kind of. __**Not really. **_But whatever. I've actually been awake for a while now. I just didn't want to move. I never seem to want to anymore. I'm not suicidal, I mean, I still want to be alive. I just can't seem to be bothered to. _**That makes total sense. **_I rub the sleep from my eyes and stretch, letting out a wheezy yawn. _**Take you're inhaler, man. **__Where did I put it? __**Under the bed?**_

"Nope," I say, my hand stretching across the carpet, sitting up again, then spot it almost instantly poking out from under the moth bitten sheets. "Stupid place to leave it."

I take it, and it helps. Then, tossing it in my backpack, I get up and go to the bathroom. It's not _actually_ the bathroom. Just the window. _**Why not? There's no one around who's alive. **__Actually, there are no biters out this morning either. __**Nice change.**_ I watch my thin stream of pee fall two stories below, hitting the garden gnome square on his pointy green hat. _That's so gross.__** You have to admit, it's pretty funny. **__Mmm, maybe a little..._

* * *

I'm sitting on the back porch, sat on the banister, thinking about leaving. It reminds me of home. That's why I stopped here the day before last. A crow _caws, _flying overhead. I watch it, thumbing at my beanie. _**Why do you keep that thing? Oliver, it smells almost as bad as the damn biters.**_ "I like it." I pull it on, tucking my relentless cow-licks under it. "And, it doesn't smell that bad."

Okay, so, I might talk aloud. Sometimes. I collect my backpack and wedge my machete between my leather belt and jeans._ All set.__**Where are you going today? **__I don't know. __**Like always, right?**__ Yes. __**Any idea? Anything in particular that you're looking for?**__ I guess I could go for some candy. _"Some things never change." _**Nope.**_

* * *

I'm out of the suburb without so much as a growl in my direction. I've gotten faster over the months, quieter, especially since the store, especially since being alone. _**Don't think about that, Oliver.**_ I shake my head, pushing the memories away. A few miles later, making my way in the general direction I remember seeing some store-looking places, I find them. It's pretty much a small mall with a big empty parking lot outside, debris and trash scattered around._ A dull atmosphere for a dull day._ Even so, I smile when I see the candy store, sticking out like a sore thumb from the colourful logo above the door. Though, I'm no idiot. I'm not going to barge right inside. Once I conclude that there's nothing dead or alive nearby or following me I wrap my fist against the window. Wait. The world stays silent. Silent and dead. So I try the door and find it's already been kicked in.

_**There better still be some candy in there.**_

"Hmm," I agree quietly, making my way inside. Machete drawn. My nose is met with stale. Sweet, too, but with an obvious bitter dryness saturated into it, plus the distinct and constant smell of rotting corpses. But I'm used to it. And although it sounds like that's a good thing, it's not. _Really._ I scope the isles, swallowing, because despite the smell I'm still craving candy. _**Just get some candy and go. You don't know that there isn't still something in here.**__Yeah, or someone. _Unfortunately, the place is pretty bare. Looted already. But not completely. I find one shelf that's got a pretty stocked chocolate section, Mars Bars and Skittles. I stuff as much as I can into my backpack. _**Not exactly the most nutritious diet. **__So? There's worse things to worry about. __**If you end up getting tooth decay, don't say you didn't warn yourself beforehand.**_

"I brush."

Then I stop, stare.

_Oh._

M&amp;M's.

_Last time I had some of those was– **I know.**_

A lump sticks to my throat. I touch it, and under my fingertips, I feel small bumps of candy inside, hear the crackling of the wrapper. I try not to think about Patrick. I really try. But I can't help it. He was the last living member of my family. My brother. I'll never see him again. I'll never know what happened to him. _**You saw. The parking lot was filled. He was ripped apart just like everyone else and you know it. Patrick died a long time ago.**_

"I think I'm done here."

I take a different rout back through the store, stuffing my mouth with M&amp;M's. There's a dead biter splayed across the floor this side, cut clean in half through the torso. Other than the fact that it's been totally severed into two pieces (because that in itself is pretty odd) I end up double taking, realising the blood's still wet. I step closer, narrowing my eyes. _**I**__**t's still bleeding. This happened within the last few minutes.**_ My expression drops, heart jumping to my throat. _**Leave. Now. Right now, Oliver.**_

I nod to myself, backing away.

You ever played a scary game? Slender Man or something. I remember scaring the shit out of myself while playing it. I'd find a note, high from relief and that small victory, until I turned around, and right there. . . right there, the tall, terrifying, faceless killer is staring at me. In this case, now, it's a crossbow I turn around to, almost walking into the end of the jet-black bolt aimed right between my eyes. I startle, keeling backwards, and I land on my ass, throwing my M&amp;M's reflexively. The rainbow of chocolate scatters like spooked birds, and the crossbow handler flinches, grimacing as they bounce and roll off of him at his boots.

I reach for my machete.

"Don't, kid." His dark blue eyes narrow, large, dark circles under them, long, dark brown hair hanging over his face. His skin is coated in dirt, but under it is light and tanned. And he wears a black waist coat over a dark shirt, his jeans dirty and torn. I freeze, staring at him, trembling when I relent my weapon, gulping as the stranger and I have a tense staring contest. He examines me –the pathetic child in front of him. I startle again when something makes a noise behind me, spinning around to look.

"Shh..." It's a woman, eyes so dark they seem all pupil, the whites glowing, dark skin and black dreadlocks, holding a fucking katana to my throat.

_Oh, fuck._

_**This is it, Oliver.  
You're about to die.**_

* * *

**Notes**

Thank you for reading xxx

Happy reading xx :_)_


	2. Brothers Reunited

**Oliver's POV**

"Hi." The woman's jaw tenses, narrowing her eyes. If she were to sneeze wrong she'd slit my jugular in two. So, naturally, I'm terrified, staring wide eyed, shaking, arms splayed out behind me.

"You got a group?"

I look at his crossbow, still aimed at my head, his deep and distinct Southern drawl only adding to the intimidation that his appearance already gives off. Not to mention the crossbow aimed between my eyes. It's dropping now, though, recognising how completely pathetic I must look.

"N... I-I..." I fail to form a sentence, having forgotten his question already, the chance to talk to someone outside of my mind proving to be too much for me to comprehend. "Uhh... uh..."

The man glances uneasily at the woman, crossbow lowering more, both of them coming to the conclusion that I'm not any real threat to them. "Kid," the woman demands, lowering her katana, too, frowning, "you alone or not?"

"I... no, I-I'm. I'm alone," I finally manage, hesitating, wanting to stand. The man nods, so I take that as approval, standing and wobbling dangerously, but managing all the same. _**Get it together, Oliver. Be ready to run... **__Running isn't going to save me from a bolt out of that guy's crossbow! _My gaze darts between the two strangers, all my senses on red alert. Any sudden movement... I'll run. It's the only defence mechanism I have left.

"You got a name, boy?" the man asks, resting his crossbow on his shoulder. I'd consider the gesture as somewhat friendly, though, I don't doubt he'd have it aiming at my face in milliseconds if he wanted. I nod, and it takes me longer than it should to realise I'm supposed to talk again.

"O-Oliver."

"Yeah?" The man shifts his weight, narrows his eyes. "Oliver _what_?"

"Oliver?" The woman says before I answer, soundly less threatening than her friend. I see the man narrow his eyes at her, and for a second I'm afraid that he'll hurt her for interrupting him, but he smirks. "How long've you been alone?"

"Uh... about five months," I answer her, and the woman's eyebrows rise in surprise. The man lets out a low, quiet grumble. I look at him. He looks me up and down, then exchanges a nod with his friend. _What are they nodding about?! __**Just be ready, Oliver... **_Listening to the rational voice in my head, I brace myself, waiting for one of them to attack first. These two don't look like the kind of people that you would want to mess with.

"How many walkers've you killed?"

_He means biters, right? __**Yes! Oliver, answer him goddamn it!**_ I shake my head and shrug, "I-I don't know... a-a lot."

"How many people you killed?" he continues.

I go rigid, hair standing on end, resisting the urge to back away, "W-what?"

"How many people you killed?"

"Nobody." _Why's he asking that? Why is he asking that?!_

"Why?"

I wince, completely confused.

"_Why_?" he growls.

"I just haven't," I answer frantically.

Another grunt from him, then another exchange of looks and nods. The woman steps in front of me, crossing her arms and looking down, into me, imposing, even though I'm not all that much shorter than her. "My name's Michonne. This here's Daryl. We're settled at a prison 'bout a thirty minute drive from here. Oliver? Would you like to come back with us?"

My heart skips a beat and my mouth falls open, but I close it once I realise. "Y-you're in the West Georgia Correctional Facility?"_** Really!? That's the question you choose to ask?! Jesus, Oliver! **_Michonne nods, smirking, and she lifts her brow, waiting for me to give my answer. "Y-yeah... Please? If that's alright, ma'am?"

I'm rambling, so I shut up. Michonne nods and purses her lips at Daryl, to which he nods back, then looks at me, narrowing his eyes. _**Oliver, stay ready. They could still be bad people. Relax. Don't look desperate. Don't look vulnerable. **_

"You got any questions for us?" he asks gruffly.

I try to think of one that doesn't sound like I'm asking them if they're just planning on killing me, but I can't. _But I think I can trust them?__** Maybe, they seem okay. Just... be ready, okay?**_ I nod, and Daryl stares at me, expecting the question afterwards, glaring when I don't give him one.

"Oh!" I shake my head. _**Real conversation! Focus on the real conversation, Oliver! **__Then stop talking to me!_ "N-no, sir. I-I don't think so."

Daryl narrows his eyes, probably questioning my sanity, though, a moment later he motions out of the store. "C'mon then. We got everythin' we need."

I pull my backpack over both shoulders and follow him, Michonne behind me, but she stops and goes back to the M&amp;M's shelf. I watch her grab a few packets, pocketing them. I can't help the mad smirk on my face when she glances at me and gives me a quick smile. "C'mon, kid."

Call it foolish, but I decide in this moment that I like both of them.

_**It is foolish. **__It's better than hanging with biters. __**Walkers. They call them walkers. **__Yeah I know, but not all of them can actually walk you know. Biter is a much more accurate name for them.__** Whatever.**_ _Muncher works pretty well too, I guess. Or lurker.__** Just call them walkers, Oliver. **__Fine._

"Kid, you alright sittin' in the back?" Michonne asks after a few minutes of walking, motioning across the street to a big, dirt covered, silver pick-up truck.

"Yes, ma'am."

Michonne gives Daryl a little smirk. _Why? __**It's because you keep calling them sir and ma'am. It's probably not often they find a teenager that's so polite. **__But that's a good thing right?__** Hmm, they seem to be pretty amused by it. **_Daryl opens the back of the truck. I hesitate, but when he walks away and tells me to shut the trunk myself, giving me the choice to simply walk away if I want to, I go ahead and climb in, taking a seat with my back to the wall. They both climb in the front, Michonne driving, Daryl as passenger.

"Comfy?" Michonne asks us. Daryl grunts. I nod, nervous.

Then, just like that, Michonne's driving. The nervous passenger in me grips the wall and floor of the truck with white knuckles, and I watch us leave the deserted, dead town towards the countryside, on our way to whatever this place has in store.

* * *

It's a little while later that I notice the walkers are becoming more frequent; ten or so every few minutes. I look at our surroundings, noting that they're all generally headed in the same direction down the road, woodland on either side with tall trees and deer paths, the same way we're headed.

"Why are there so many?"

I'd wanted to ask for a while –a long while– only managing to now because the question's bursting from me. Michonne tilts her head to the little window, calls back: "We're close now!"

Then Daryl talks, Southern accent even thicker when he raises his voice, "The deal w'livin'n a large group's that ya git clusters of'm. But we got fences." Just then, we drive past a sign. I read:

_BEWARE HITCHHIKERS MAY BE  
ESCAPING INMATES_

I don't know why, but it makes me laugh. Hard. I do my best to stifle it, but I know that Michonne and Daryl've heard me as they exchange another glance with each other. _**Shh! Fucking, mental case. **_I force my face to relax, clearing my throat. "S-sorry," I stutter awkwardly, "it was the, uh... the sign."

Michonne smirks; I see it in the wing mirror. I chew my lip and turn back around._** Yeah. They think you're crazy, Oliver. **_Daryl whistles, and I look, seeing him motion with his head to something in front, so I look over the side of the truck to see what it is. Now, my hair has always been just about the most gravity defying physical mass in the world, and so the wavy brown follicles whip around my face madly, tangling and flapping. I have to both hold it out of my eyes _and_ grab my beanie to stop it flying off.

But then I see it.

My mouth falls open. Eyes widen. "Holy shit," falls from my agape lips as I watch the Prison come nearer and nearer. I count three tall guard towers –and that's just the ones I can see! There's a large front yard where they even have a vegetable garden and a few animals. The Prison building's huge –big, strong, brick walls and a tall metal fence around the whole vicinity.

Then I see them.

_**Oh my god.  
**__People.  
__**Lots of people.  
**__Living people.  
__**Actual, living, breathing, blood-pumped people. . .**_

My stomach lurches to my throat. Even with the cool air blasting in my face, I'm sweating. I watch the gates open. There are snares set up on either side. A walker ambles after us, but before it can get past the gate, it closes, and the dead woman impales itself on the spikes. _Hmm, neat. __**Ew. **_The car drives through the inner fence and I see it close behind us, furthermore, I see who the gates are being operated by. Two people. One; a tall, well built man with dark skin and a beanie similar to mine. The second person; a teenage boy. He looks around my age, dark brown hair so long it hangs over the base of his neck and almost covers his eyebrows. _Never thought I'd see another guy with longer hair than me. __**Yeah, suits him better than you though.**_ _That's not exactly surprising though. For one, I haven't washed in weeks, and two, he's not nearly as awkward-looking as I am. __**You mean because he's handsome? **_The inner conversation stops when the two see me. _Me, _as in, _the stranger tucked away in the boot of the vehicle. _So I look away, glancing up every once in a while to see them both watching the truck head up the driveway. When I meet the boy's eyes again, or, as far as I can tell from this distance, I have to look away again, bringing my hand up to cover my eyes, too, unable to keep the eye contact. _Nope! I can't do it. Too many people. __**Oliver, it was just two and one looks younger than you!**__ Shut the hell up! It's called social anxiety!_

**Carl's POV**

They found another stray.

"Come on," Tyreese says, gravel cracking under his shoes, and we turn into the courtyard. Tyreese goes to greet the stray and help unpack. I continue past and into D-Block. Dad told me to play soccer with Patrick. Though, as I go, pulling open the heavy doors, I look over my shoulder once, see the kid climbing from the truck; about my age, if anything only slightly older. Crazy, wavy hair a little shorter than mine and a shade lighter brown. He's wearing a used-to-be-blue-but-looks-more-green-now T-shirt and torn flannel, some jeans in the same filthy, worn state, and some red sneakers. I can see his sock toe poking through the end of the left one. He's got a red-handled machete on his belt, too.

Tattered and overwhelmed and scrawny –that's sort of how I want to explain him, and, also kind of sad. But, an odd type of sad. A sad like he's used to it. A sad like me. . .

Stray.

It's only then that I realise I've been stood in the doorway for longer than I thought, because a girl from D-Block, Teddy, walks out, bidding me a short, "Hey," as she passes that I don't return, because I simply step out of the way and keep watching the stray. He's talking to Michonne and Dad. They're probably giving him a once over of this place like they do for every new comer. Then he'll be assigned a cell block and cell. D-Block's still got some filling to do. He looks nervous. Not surprising. They usually do when they arrive. But he'll settle eventually and act like he owns the place like the rest of them. He's nodding now, nodding like he doesn't know if he means it, nodding the way you nod when you know you don't really have a choice. I know why, too. Dad's asked for his machete.

He hands it over.

I look away and disappear into the cell block.

**Oliver's POV**

_He took it. Hetookithetookithetookit! __**Keep it together, Oliver. You can do this.**_

The man, Rick Grimes, is friendly, but intimidating. He isn't the leader though. It's obvious that he's highly respected by everyone here but he doesn't run the place. It turns out the Prison's actually run by a Council. _The _Council. Like a kind of Mini Government. _**Seems they've done pretty well for themselves. **__Yeah..._

"Oliver, you'll be in D-Block," Rick tells me.

I nod. Nod and nod and nod. "Thanks." I've said that a lot, too.

"Michonne, could you take the boy to a cell? Get'm settled?" Then he turns to me. "D-Block's Michonne's block, too."

Michonne taps Daryl on the arm and nods fair well, does the same to the gate man who's introduced himself as Tyreese. Then turns to me, carefully slips an arm over my shoulder because that's apparently what she can do now, and I act like I'm not totally overwhelmed. And she smiles with one side of her mouth. It reminds me of my mom –but, then again, any friendly woman probably would remind me of my mom– regardless, it helps, and I smile back.

"Let's go, kid."

As we go, I read, in big, black, faded letters on the side of the building ahead:

_D BLOCK_

"How old're you, Oliver?" Michonne asks, holding open the heavy doors.

"I just turned fifteen, I think... It's October now, right?" I ask. My birthday's September thirtieth. I've made a surprisingly religious effort to keep track of the date. I don't know why exactly. Time's just really important to me.

"A few days in I think."

We walk down a short, dim corridor, lit by flood lights overhead, more natural light coming from what I guess it the cell block further down. A moment later, we're in a big room with crates stacked against one wall, random personal objects on them; books, drinks, ornaments, one in particular that catches my eye is an abstract sculpture of a cat, it's coat (plaster) is an array of different colours. _Neat. __**Yeah, it's alright in here. Once you get past the whole 'prison' thing.**_

"This is the common room," Michonne says, walking through. "Through there is the shower room and bathroom... And in here's the cell block."

I follow her, pulling at my beanie, readjusting my backpack on one shoulder –it's lighter now since all my candy was taken, as I'd agreed to share it. For a second I reach to adjust my machete, only to remember I don't have it either. Rick said he'd keep it safe though, and I was reluctant –why wouldn't I be. So being asked to give it up was tough. But I did.

There are two floors, cells on the right side as you go in, and on the left is a grey wall with high barred windows. People are around and I try not to gawk at them, amazed they they're all not growling and trying to rip my flesh apart, and a small part of me expects them to. But they don't, and I definitely like it better like that. I've really missed people.

I see that teenager from earlier. He strolls out of a cell with his hands in his jeans pockets, glancing back at the cell he just came from. When he sees us he scratches his nose, watches me pensively, and my eyes jitter all over the place, but then he looks back to the cell, paying no more attention to either of us, and I can look at him a little easier now. But then my eyes jump up to the second row of cells above when a little girl with blonde hair marches out of a cell and skips down the steps, giving me a nervous glance before continuing into another cell to my right, joining another girl in there a little younger with the same long, blonde locks who I only just realise has been watching me this whole time.

_Too many faces.  
Too many people. _

"You got the soccer ball, Patrick?" the boy addresses someone inside of the cell.

A dragon seems to bite me in the stomach, and my head dips, thinking of my brother.

_I don't wanna be here.  
I can't do this._

"Oh. This is Carl," Michonne introduces us. "Rick's son."

The boy, Carl, looks at me, pursing his lips into a reluctant smile. "Hi." He looks away again, dismissive. It doesn't surprise me though, I'm being just as anti-social, because I'd looked away the moment I'd heard his voice. But when Michonne nudges my elbow (because apparently that's something she can do to me now, too) I force myself to respond, nodding. . .

"I'm Oliver."

Carl nods, looking me up and down, then loses interest and looks back to the cell, frowns. "Patrick?"

My gut twinges at the name, and again I glance at the floor, silently wishing I could crawl into a hole and shrivel up there. I look at Michonne, "Ma'am," I say quietly, and she arches her brow, "can I just get to a cell? Please?"

She nods, "C'mon, k–"

"Oliver?"

It's a voice I haven't heard in almost half a year. I almost ignore it, thinking it's just my memories playing tricks on me. But the voice calls me again, uttering my name, and it suddenly sends every nerve in my body into overdrive with recognition. So I look up, and my heart stops. . .

_**Oh no, Oliver. You're fucking hallucinating now, too.**_

"Pat?" I have to say it, just to be sure, and I'm frozen, staring wild eyed at him. _But it can't be him. Patrick's dead!_ Carl glances between us, confusion flooding him, only confirming that this isn't in my imagination. Then, without processing what I'm doing, I break into a run across the cell block. "Pat!"

He's running, too. Pure relief. I've imagined this moment for five months; finally reuniting with my big brother again. For a second I'm convinced my chest'll erupt. It's unbearable. But then, as soon as that emotion forms, another clouds over it without me being able to stop it. Rage. My hands ball up into fists. My face tenses. _**Wait… Oliver, what are you doing? **_I pull back my arm. _**Wait. Wait, Oliver, no! **_But it lurches forward, and my knuckle collides with his jaw.

**Carl's POV**

"FIVE MONTHS!"

Oliver's roar is earth shaking. He pins Patrick to the floor. The soccer ball flies across the cell block out of Patrick's hands, and I wince as Oliver hits him again, and again, and Patrick folds underneath the boy, grunting, blood splattering across the cement.

"YOU WERE DEAD FIVE MONTHS FIVE MONTHS!" Oliver chants like a mad man. "_FIVEMONTHSFIVEMONTHSFIVEMONTHS_!"

Michonne leaps forward, yanking Oliver off of the teenager. "Stop it!" she barks at him as he thrashes wildly in her headlock, screaming at the top of his lungs, and for a moment I think she'll snap his neck. But she doesn't. I rush to Patrick, helping him stand. He's trembling, and he pulls away and spits blood, cradling his swelling jaw and eye. In the same moment the doors crash open and Glenn and Daryl bolt through the block, weapons drawn. No doubt they heard Oliver's bellowing, which, even now, hasn't stopped. Even when they aim their gun and crossbow at him he doesn't stop struggling. But I know that they won't shoot.

I would…  
But lucky for him Dad took my gun…

"Don't!" Patrick splutters, barely able to hear him over the lunatic, swallowing the blood in his mouth. I scowl, wondering how the hell he could be defending him, but my question is soon answered by Patrick's next words. . . "Don't! H-he's my brother!"

Everything goes quiet, the whole cell block staring at them. I shift my eyes between the two, at first not believing it, but as I look closer, calming my adrenaline rush, I notice the similarities in appearance between the two teenagers. Brown eyes, brown, wavy hair, olive skin, thin nose and lips, under-bite. . .

Patrick has a _brother_?  
_Patrick_ has a brother.  
_Patrick_ has a _brother_!

I step back, speechless. Patrick never told me anything about his family. When the topic first arose a few weeks after he arrived he got very uncomfortable, his voice started shaking and his hands started fidgeting, so I never asked him again. It's only then that I realise Oliver's stopped struggling against Michonne. So I look at him again, almost startling when I see that he's on his knees now, crying and mumbling to himself. When Patrick says his name, the younger boy holds an arm out, muttering his name, and despite what just happened Patrick is there, wrapping his arms around him, clutching his shaking shoulders, and they both are crying now, holding and holding and holding.

We watch this happen. Exchanging confused and worried glances. Until Daryl motions for all of us to get on with our day, coming to the conclusion that Patrick and Oliver have a lot of talking to do together. But Michonne stays, just in case Oliver decides to lash out again. He seems a little… _unhinged._ I guess _'five months'_ can do that to a person.

**Oliver's POV**

I bear hug my brother. Bear hug him so hard I'm pretty sure he can't breathe. But he doesn't care. He's hugging me so hard that I haven't been breathing for a while. Gasping. Gasping through his shirt. Crying and crying and crying. _He's here. He's alive. I'm not alone anymore. But I won't let go of him. If I do he'll disappear like before. He'll die all over again and I'll really be alone._

"H-how did y-you es-escape?" he sobs, experiencing the same emotional turmoil as I. "I-I saw you… th-that walker took y-you d-down."

"I got out. I l-looked for y-you, Pat. The p-parking lot was f-flooded with th-them. I d-didn't stop looking for you. I didn't stop. But y-you were gone. You were gone."

"Come on. We probably shouldn't be sitting in the middle of the cell block."

"Patrick, you should go see Dr. S?" Michonne suggests.

I pull at my beanie, feeling the guilt that I deserve._** Great, Oliver! Now they all think you're fucking mental!**__ I wouldn't blame them. I don't even know what that was… _

"Yes, ma'am," my brother tells her. "But I'll go in a little while. We just really need some time."

She tenses her jaw, looks at me. "We do _not_ tolerate violence here. Got that?"

"Y-yes, ma'am." It takes me aback that she isn't actually angry. She's arching her brow, stern, but empathetic, pursing her lips. "I'm really sorry," I tell her truthfully. "It won't happen again. I-I swear."

"Alright," she stares, but her expression is soft. No doubt she acknowledges the fact that today has been rough for me. Rough for Patrick, too. So she glances to him behind me, nods and gives us a friendly salute, before turning on her heel and leaving the cell block.

"Come on, dude," Patrick says, slurring a little, wiping his swollen and bruised mouth. Luckily the bleeding isn't too bad, but I don't think his sleeves will ever be the same dirty blue again.

So we talk. It turns out that Patrick tried to stay in the parking lot for as long as possible, but when it was getting too crowded he ran, went the opposite way that I did around the store, so we ended up on the opposite side of the building. _Figures. _Anyway, when he couldn't find me (by that time I was probably at the point of suffocating in that forest) Patrick had to make a run for it, and a few hours later he ended up running right into some of the prison group as they were coming back from setting up a boom box. That's why there were so many walkers all of a sudden. They were following the noise. Simply at the wrong time and the wrong place. Or, the right time at the right play, really, looking at it all now.

But it all comes down to the fact that Patrick is okay, and I am, too.  
We're here now, finally back as brothers again.

_**Yeah, now all you have to do is just show everyone that you're not a damn psychopath.**_

* * *

**Carl's POV**

"Why aren't you hanging out with Patrick?"

"His brother came back," I answer vaguely.

Dad stops, scoffs, stares. "Excuse me?"

"His brother," I say, shrugging, collecting my squirrel meat when Carol serves it to me. "The kid. He's Patrick's brother."

Dad, of course, doesn't let me get on with not talking about the boy like I was kind of hoping I could get to, and so I explain what happened, and he leaves to go find them, because even though the Council runs this place he still has to butt his nose in. Almost everyone is half done with eating supper by the time that Patrick and his brother finally come to get some food, too.

"Hey," Patrick smiles to me and Michonne, clearly in a much better mood.

"Found a shower I see," Michonne says, smiling to them both. I notice that Oliver's clean now –dirt smudges and blood spatters gone, his skin lighter and his hair untangled, though, still wavy and cow-licked, tucked under his beanie. But their resemblance is more obvious now. It makes me stare for a moment too long.

"Well the smells finally gone," Patrick smirks, and Oliver grimaces, as if to say, _I'm definitely not comfortable enough to play along, dude_. I imagine that he probably says _dude _a lot, too, like Patrick.

"Did Doctor. S fix your face?" I ask, pointing my fork at his bruised jaw and swollen lower lip. Both are looking a lot better than they were before, but still not looking very good. I still catch the weary glance Oliver gives me for asking.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Patrick says and takes a seat next to me. His brother fumbles when he realises there isn't enough space to sit beside him, and so he takes a seat opposite next to Michonne, opposite me, his eyes down and away. He begins his meal without talking, trying hard not to stuff all of the dear meat into his mouth at once by the way that he grips his fork tightly after every mouthful. He probably hasn't had a proper meal in a while.

Then he notices me watching him, and his eyes shift up to me. I look at Patrick, suddenly remembering that he hasn't filled me in on all of this like I'd like him to. So I frown at the newly-recognised big brother, silently condemning him for not telling me about this. He purses his lips in silent apology and begins his meal too.

The silence is awkward.  
Really awkward.

It's Michonne who attempts to break the ice: "Oh… I got you something."

I watch her fish into her jacket pocket and pull out a packet of M&amp;M's. She smirks and hands it to me. I sigh, "Thanks," splitting open the packet and grabbing a handful. I offer some to Patrick, but he glances at his brother for a brief moment and they seem to have a telepathic conversation together, because suddenly they look like they might cry, but Patrick turns to me and nods, takes a handful. I only offer some to Oliver when Michonne kicks me under the table before I look rude. However, Oliver declines.

"Uh." _Ew. Ew. Ew._ "Michonne, I think they're stale…" She scoffs when I hand the packet back, grimacing. "Think I'll pass."

She glares playfully. I pretend not to notice Oliver smirking.

Through the meal, I mostly just talk to Patrick and Michonne, maybe giving Oliver a one syllable response if it's absolutely required, but he keeps quiet for most of it anyway, his eyes watching and watching and watching, making mental notes that he doesn't share with any of us. Michonne has to kick me under the table more than once for glaring at him for it, and I'll wince and glare at her for it, too. Thinking, _First he beats the crap out of his own brother and now we're all supposed to treat him like one of us?_ It doesn't sit right.

Michonne finishes her meal before us, leaves to wash her dirty dish. In truth, Michonne and Patrick are pretty much my closest friends here at the Prison. I usually spend most of my time alone to be honest, because Michonne is almost always gone. I'll also spend time with my sister, or Beth, and I appreciate Michonne coming to sit with us every once in a while because I know she'd rather sit with Dad or Daryl or Glenn or Maggie. But she does sit with me, sometimes, for my sake.

"Going for the hippie-slash-walker-slayer look then?" Patrick mocks his brother, plucking the hat from Oliver's head and scuffing up his hair beneath it. I'm surprised by how long his hair actually is. I'm not sure why I find it surprising though. Surprising might not be the right word. But looking for the right word proves to confuse me, because I come up with, _makes me double take, _and, _gives me a weird butterfly feeling in my stomach,_ so I stop thinking about it

"I think it works for me," Oliver jokes. I push the part of my mind that agrees with him away and resume observing the two. "Pat. Give it." Oliver tries to grab it back, but Patrick pulls it away, grinning like a fool as he holds it out of his brother's reach. So the younger teen glares at him, not nearly as amused. "Go shove a condom on your head," he hisses. "If you're gonna be such a dick you might as well dress like one."

I actually find myself laughing at this, and when I stop suddenly I almost choke on my food, my eyes watering, throat burning. It distracts Patrick, who laughs at me, and so Oliver snatches his hat back and puts it on his head again. He's smirking at me, as if in thanks, and I can't help the defiant smile that tugs at the corner of my lips, too.

So, I decide to give him a chance and make an actual conversation with him... well, sort of. "So, Patrick… were you ever gonna tell me you have a brother?"

"Dude, come on," he begins to say this to me, but he notices the narrowed eyes from his brother and turns to him instead, "let's move past this."

Then Oliver turns to me, "He calls you dude, too."

I nod, and I'm looking at him now, dead on in the eye, and I see the golden flecks in them, wondering if they were there before. They look like fire-power, the flashes and embers after a revolving shot. The smile on my mouth grows. "Pretty much all the time."

"And it's always, _sir_ or _ma'am_ to everyone else, right?"

"Jeeze!" Patrick blurts. "Pick on me, why don't you? What would you prefer? Young sir?"

"How about our actual names?" I suggest.

"Nahh, I'm actually quite liking _young sir_ now." He seems to decide in this moment that it's the best idea he's ever had. "Yeah, actually that'll work."

I exchange a glance with Oliver, not even meaning to at first, but his smile broadens, and the corners of his eyes crinkle, and I return the expression before I can control it, only to look away when butterflies invade my stomach for a reason that I blame on the stale M&amp;M's.

"Think I preferred _dude,_" Oliver whispers to me, and ignoring myself, I look at him again, and his eyebrows lift, and I watch them, then realise I'm supposed to reply. So I purse my lips, looking away and finishing my food.

I'll admit, Oliver is growing on me.  
He seems alright.

* * *

**Notes**

Happy reading xx :_)_


	3. Superman vs Wolverine

_**Alright, the first **_**_⅓_**_** of this chapter is the story progression-important part. But after that the rest of this chapter are bonus chapters and can be skipped if you want to. There's a note when they start x (It's only chapter 3 and 4 that does this in this series)**_

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

I have been living at the prison for a week or so, maybe a few days more, and I have finally managed to just about rid myself of my previous reputation as The Prison Psycho, thankfully. Which took a lot more _Hello_'s and _Your Welcome_'s and _How was your day_'s and _Oh, that's nice_'s than I can ever be comfortable with. I help out with kitchen duties with Patrick and Carol. I like it. Though, I'm still just about the world's most terrible cook and so I mostly stay away from the hot parts of it all. In my spare time, I mostly just hang out with Pat, or read –like– a lot. _Really_ a lot. I've kinda actually hoarded about thirty books under my cot in my cell, accidentally though. I mean, it's not necessarily _stealing._ I'll return them, _eventually._ It's just, when I read a book and I fall in love with the story and the characters and the words and the everything it has to offer, it's just hard to let go of it. So, you see my problem. But I will return them.

I hardly speak to any of the other kids. We're on good terms and everything, sure, but I'm just not very good at talking to them. Take Carl for instance. We only hang out with each other when we're both with Patrick, and, granted, we do enjoy ourselves, I guess, but without Patrick around we rarely make conversation on our own.

This morning I'm in the outside cafeteria with Patrick and Carol, we're serving the squirrel Daryl caught earlier and some canned beans. Carl has just finished his breakfast and puts his plate on the pile of dirty ones next to me, and because it's my job I get to washing them all.

"You comin' to play soccer, Patrick?" he asks, clutching the ball under his arm.

"Yep, almost done here."

Carl nods, but for some reason he keeps looking at Patrick, and when my brother doesn't respond, only stares right back in confusion, Carl's left eyebrow cocks, and his head tilts, to me. . . but when his eyes snap to mine for an accidental fraction of a second I startle out of my skin, dropping the plate. I'd been handing it to Sasha, and luckily her reflexes are fast enough to catch it, and only a splodge splatters the front of her sweater.

"Sorry!"

"No, no, it's okay," she says, and Bob is next to her, laughing at me. "This sweater's so filthy you can hardly tell."

"Sorry," I say again, handing Bob another plate, focussing enough not to drop this one –something he looks enormously grateful for.

Patrick scoffs when I look at him desperately, rolling his eyes.

"Sorry," I say again, pulling at my beanie.

Carl and he exchange another odd look, and this time Patrick's eyes roll at him. Then he turns to me, says, "Oliver, do you wanna play, too?" like it's the most exhausting question in the world, and it only just occurs to me that Carl had been asking Patrick to ask me to join them. _Why didn't he just ask me himself?__** I don't know. He's probably just socially retarded like you. **__Shut up! And that's offensive!_

"Oh," I say, and then I'm nodding. "Mhm."

"That a yes?" Patrick asks, because I realise me nodding looks more like I'm shivering.

"Yes, sorry, yeah. Thanks."

Allison's waiting for a plate, so I serve her one, acutely aware that Carl's watching me. So acutely aware that I feel like I'm rigid, like the longer he looks the faster I turn to stone, and I can't decide if he's doing it more out of impatience or if he's just thinking how pathetic I am. Eventually though, Carl goes and waits at a bench, rolling the soccer ball across the metal surface until both Patrick and I are done with our chores and Carol dismisses us, and so the three of us head down to the back field. There are already a few kids out here, usually are at this time, and they're all enjoying a game of dodge ball. After a final vote of two to one –Carl was the one– we scrap our plans to play soccer and join their game instead.

It's awesome.

My reflexes are still pretty fast, and so dodging the balls is no trouble. But due to my crap-for-breathing lungs, I have to stop and take a break after a little while. But I've still got my inhaler. It's almost out, but I know that there are spares in the infirmary. Instead of going back into the game I choose to sit and watch for a little while longer. I can breathe again but I'd kinda like it to stay that way without my lungs arguing with me.

I laugh when Patrick throws a ball and hits Carl in the shoulder, sending him plummeting to his hands and knees, rolling over onto his back. I read the word, _"Dammit!"_ pass his lips, before he brings himself to his feet again, rubbing his sore arm, glaring at Patrick.

"You're out, Carl!" a little girl with neck length brown hair called Molly giggles at him.

He rolls his eyes and I watch him leave, grinning at his surprisingly short temper. But as he goes, Carl's eyes suddenly dart to me, noticing my smug expression. _Shit!_ I do that awkward thing again where I look away suddenly for no apparent reason, hoping that Carl doesn't think I was being rude, or think I was watching him. _**Which you kind of were. **__No, I just saw him… I wasn't watching him! _Then I consider taking off running when Carl makes a beeline for me.

"You out too?" he asks, slumping down next to me and wiping the sweat from his forehead. Inwardly collapsing with relief, I raise my inhaler to his eye line and he nods, then looks out to watch the game. "How long have you had it?" he asks. "Asthma."

I tug my beanie, look at him, unsure if he's genuinely interested or is just forcing a conversation with the asthmatic kid because he thinks he has to. But as my eyes meet his I see the curiosity behind them, the pursed lips that are waiting to ask more questions playing on his mind. So I answer. . .

"Since I was about four, I think."

The pause is so long I almost think our fleeting moment of conversation is over, but then he talks : "That's gotta be rough… is it bad?"

It surprises me; how casual he's acting, talking to me as if such social behaviour between the two of us is a common occurrence. When in all honesty, this is the longest conversation Carl and I have ever had together. But I go with it, shrugging. "It's alright. I mean, when you get past the whole lack of oxygen thing."

"I'm not sure that's very useful in the middle of the apocalypse," he says a little awkwardly, like he's not sure if it was an insult or something. When I laugh he looks relieved.

"Yep," I say sarcastically. "I am, the _Ultimate Dooms Day Survivor._" He's grinning. So am I. "Armed with a Ventolin inhaler and a grey beanie hat."

Carl does a sort of, slow laugh as he nods in agreement, or, maybe just thinking that I'm pathetic again.

I get self-conscious again so I pull at my beanie. "It's about as useful as Aquaman stranded in the Sahara Dessert."

Carl's eyebrows jump, "You're into superheroes?" I nod, and his smile broadens even though he tries to hold his lips and face still. "D'you read any comics?"

"Used to. You got any?"

"Yeah. Michonne brings them back from her runs sometimes. I've got a whole lode of'm in my cell."

"Oh," I say a little more softly than I meant to, smiling. He's so eager all of a sudden. I mean, not that it isn't nice. It's just different from usually just feeling like a dork around him. He purses his lips and sits back again, like he's just realised the change in his own behaviour, kind of like a dog that's been told to get on its bed when it's desperate to go and see who's at the door. _**This is probably the part where you should say something. **__Oh, uh, right. Um... _"Cool."

Carl's eyes dart to me to the dodge ball game, then back, considering something, but in the end he just keeps watching the game. I'm guessing he doesn't get much opportunity to talk about this kind of thing with Patrick. My brother's never really been into comics. He'll read them, sure, but usually only as a last resort to subdue his boredom. I, on the other hand, used to have a whole bookshelf full. I'd collect action figures and buy all of the movies with my allowance money. Being the giant dork that I was – _am_, pretty much all I ever did before the Turn was read comics and jerk off over pictures of Wonder Woman… sometimes Thor, too, but, honestly, I don't think that particular subject _ever_ needs to be brought up.

"D'you wanna go read some?"

"Oh. Yeah, sure."

Carl brings himself to his feet, walking back towards C-Block. _What? Wait, isn't he going to wait for Patrick? _I hesitate, glancing at my brother, who is still playing with the others, then I look back to Carl, who is still walking away.

"Go now?"

He stops and turns mid-step to face me, already about fifty yards away. "Yeah, c'mon!" he yells, chucking his chin for me to follow. _This is a first – doing something with Carl, without Patrick._ _**Go, dork! **_

"Right."

**Carl's POV**

We walk through the C-Block corridor, debating over who are the greatest super heroes. Regardless of how completely ridiculous it may be, this is probably the best conversation I've had in a long time. Oliver's kind of brilliant. I mean, he's pretty cool, and I never get to talk about this stuff with anyone. I've tried to convince Michonne about comics, and she shows mediocre enthusiasm towards them. But I can tell that she only does it to entertain me. Patrick on the other hand just reads when he has nothing better to do, and even then he only looks at the pictures. I know that comics are mostly just pictures, but not reading them too is like putting your clothes on without any underwear.

Oliver is trying to make the argument that Iron Man could win in a battle against Wolverine. But I'm not buying it: "Um, _no. _Wolverine would totally _destroy_ Iron Man. Wolverine is literally invincible. You can't beat that."

"What?" Oliver scoffs and furrows his eyebrows at me, "No way! Iron Man would... whatever. What about Wolverine versus Superman? He's invincible, too."

He laughs at the ridiculous mash up.  
It's only after a moment that I realise I'm laughing too.

But I stifle my laughter, thinking, turning into the common room. "Well first of all that would never happen," I explain. "Superman and Wolverine are from different comic universes." I can tell by Oliver rolling his eyes at me that he already knows this. "Second of all, Superman, obviously, 'cause he's super strong. All he'd have to do is jus' crush Wolverine into a tiny piece of indestructible metal." I demonstrate with my hands the sort of action flattening a soda can looks like. "Right?"

Oliver nods in agreement, but suddenly his eyebrows arch in the middle, and his lips stretch, and then he starts laughing.

"What?" I ask, dropping my hands. It turns out Oliver's laugh is pretty contagious.

"I was just thinking, Wolverine could just run Superman a bath or something, then just throw a load of liquid Kryptonite in the water. He'd be rendered powerless so Wolverine could just stab him."

"In what circumstance," I get out through my laughter, "would Wolverine ever have to run Superman a bath? You're so..."

Hilarious.  
Sarcastic.  
Weird.

Captivating.

I stop laughing, pulling open the cell block doors and going inside. Carol is sat on the stairs cooing to Judith, Dad stood next to them talking about something. They look up from my sister and smile at us.

"Hey," I say, meeting them at the stairs.

"Hey boys," Carol says, craning her neck. "Where's Patrick?"

"He's playing dodge ball with the others," I tell her, holding my arms out for Judith. So Carol hands her over, and Judith babbles to herself as I place her on my hip, pawing at my cheeks. "Hey, Judy."

Dad mumbles something to Carol about Story Time, and she nods, and he turns to Oliver and I, tells us, "See you later, boys," before leaving the cell block. My sister squeals after him, but soon settles for me, nuzzling back into my chest. Oliver's grinning at her.

"D'you wanna hold her?"

Oliver's smile drops, his eyes snapping at me, "Oh. N-no. I'm... I'll drop her."

I step closer and hold her out to him. "You won't. It's not rocket science, dork."

Oliver narrows his eyes at me, but relents. He frowns in concentration, balancing her on his hip, and as she settles a small lopsided smile creeps across his expression. "Hi, little ass kicker."

I smile. Daryl's nick name for my sister is getting pretty popular with most people now, including Oliver it seems, much to my father's dismay though. But Oliver wouldn't have said it if he was around.

Judith giggles, reaches up to his beanie.

"Well, she doesn't hate you," I say truthfully, crossing my arms, realising that I'm suddenly a little jealous that Judith has taken to Oliver so quickly. Or that Oliver has taken to Judith so quickly? I shake my head, pushing that theory away.

"Carl, you okay?" Carol asks.

"Huh?" I almost startle, realising I've been frowning. "Oh, yeah. Come on, Oliver."

"'Kay," Oliver says, carefully handing Judith back to Carol, only as he does this, and isn't looking at the woman, I catch a strangely suspicious glance from her. I frown at her, confused, and she lifts her eyebrows in mock-nonchalance. But I pretend not to notice, heading to my cell with Oliver instead.

Once inside, I crouch under my bed and pull out about five of my comics at random.

"Oh man! You've got Kick Ass," Oliver stares, pulling at his beanie. He seems to do that a lot. It's funny. He never actually moves the thing, only pulls at it a little. I think it's just a habit. I realise I'm smiling, only stopping when he looks up at me, his eyes wide and shiny with amazement. "_Awesome._"

"You like him?"

"_Yeah._"

I hand him the comic, shrugging. "He's alright." I stand next to him, reading the blurb over his shoulder. "But he doesn't really have super powers. He's just a random teenager who buys a wet suit and acts like a hero."

"Yeah, but that's what's so great about him," Oliver explains, and if my eyes were closed I'd still be able to tell that he's smiling. "He's just a normal kid," he goes on, "who decides to do something really stupid, which pretty much ends up with him almost getting himself and everyone he cares about killed. But it's great because what happened to him could totally happen in real life – well, not so much any more..." he's rambling, reading stood up.

I smirk, sit on my bed and start on a Wolverine comic, and I'm thinking about Wolverine running Superman a bath and it makes me laugh. Oliver's still reading. "You can sit down."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"There you are," Patrick says, strolling into Carl's cell.

I look up at him, seeing everything in up-side down and taking a moment to understand why. During the time I have been reading I've somehow managed to subconsciously position myself on Carl's bed so that I'm led on my back; my legs rested up against the wall, bent at the knees. _When did I sit like this? __**You must've been too immersed in the comic.**__ I've only got a few pages left._

"Sorry," I apologise, closing the Kick Ass comic. "We've been reading."

"It's fine." Patrick says. "I was hanging out with Lizzie and Mika. Came looking for you guys 'cause Story Time's starting soon."

"Oh, right. Okay," I clumsily swing my legs back over myself, almost hitting Carl in the process.

"_Ack_! Watch it!"

"Sorry, man…" I apologise, setting myself straight. "Hey, you coming?"

"I'm good."

Shrugging, I hand him the comic, jumping off the cot. "Later." But I stop, turn to him. "Wait… why don't you ever go?"

"Because it's for kids," he tells Kick Ass.

"You're younger than both of us."

"Exactly."

I'd be lying if this doesn't make me feel about five years old, or that it doesn't make my cheeks heat up in embarrassment. But Patrick pinches my sleeve when he notices my falter, telling Carl and casual, "See you later?"

He nods and smirks at us, "Yep. Have fun reading kid's books."

"Have fun reading comics."

At my words, Carl looks at me through his eyelashes, still facing the comic.

"Later, young sir," Patrick says as he leaves, expecting me to follow, and I do, backing out of the cell, though, I'm still looking at him, and he looks back at me, like a staring contest. But he suddenly chuckles, opening his eyes wide, and the bright blue in them pop out at me, and for a second I find it hard to believe that I've never actually noticed them before like this.

So blue.  
Bluer than blue.  
Electrifying blue.

But I realise I'll stare for too long unless I react to his gesture now, so I let out a weak laugh at my win, ignoring my flipping gut, bringing myself to turn and leave.

* * *

Story Time is actually pretty boring. Carl's right, it is for kids. But Patrick always insists that I go, and this is the third time that I have now. Whenever I say I'm going to skip he just says, "It's important," or, "We couldn't do it last time, there were too many people around," but I have never known what this suspicious _'it'_ is.

I find out today.

Ryan, Mika's and Lizzie's father, usually watches over Story Time while Carol reads for a little while. But today he leaves pretty early, maybe only a few minutes in. But when he does I immediately noticed Patrick tense up next to me. I'm sat on the floor. Like most of the other kids. Anyway, when this happens, I also notice a lot of the other kids are acting strange, too, and then Carol puts down the book she's reading, Order of the Phoenix.

"Do you want me to keep watch, ma'am?" a boy called Luke asks.

"You did last time. Patrick, will you today?"

"Yes, ma'am," my brother complies, getting up.

I stare at him in alarm, mouthing _'What's happening?'_ to which he just motions back to Carol, going to the door. So I watch as Carol pulls out a small box from under her seat, she opens it and shows all of us a variety of mushrooms and strange looking fruit. They're all a little wrinkled and aged now as I am guessing she's been planning this for a while. _**Maybe this is the 'it' that we couldn't do the last time?**_

"Now, who can tell me which of these are edible and which are poisonous? Anyone?"

No one answers, although I know the answer. It's strange how after over a year of living in the apocalypse I'm still too nervous to put my damn hand up in a class environment. Anyway, because everyone stays silent, Carol goes on to tell us which are safe.

So this is what Patrick is all secretive about. Carol's teaching the kids survival skills. _But why does it have to be a secret? __**I don't know… **__I wonder if Carl knows. I know that he's been to at least a few Story Time sessions. __**Yeah, but that was when it first started. I don't think that Carol has been teaching the kids for more that a few months from putting the things Patrick has said about it together now.**_

Carol spends the rest of Story Time explaining where best to forage for edible food, little tricks to tell that mushroom for this one, or this herb for that weed. Death is usually the answer. I'd always just thought that Carol was more of a soft, tag along, den-mother who's sort of relied on everyone else to keep her alive. Not in any disrespect, just because that kind of person isn't unheard of nower days. But I couldn't be more wrong. Carol Peletier knows everything, and she's wise and skilled at what she is teaching us. She's being wary about it. Every time Pat warns someone is coming, which only happens twice, Carol quickly conceals the objects and continues reading Harry Potter, while all of us stay silent and act like nothing happened, until it's clear, and we all continue with the lesson again.

* * *

"Class dismissed."

When everyone leaves, including Patrick, I amble over to where Carol is, wanting to ask her something, though I procrastinate, nonchalantly skimming through the bookshelf as I go. _**Old habits die hard. **__I'm just looking.__** You have half of the library under your bunk anyway. **__Yeah, but no one knows about that, and there are always more books to read._

"Oliver?"

I startle. I'd started to forget why I'd stayed behind in the first place because I'd been reading the blurb of a book that caught my eye, but I turn to face her, putting the novel back. "Yes, ma'am?"

Carol glances at the floor, furrowing her brow before looking at me again, keeping up hushed tones. "I wanted to thank you for cooperating earlier. I know you and Carl're friends, and I hate to expect you to do this."

"Erm..." I tilt my head. "Expect me to do what?"

She stares, "Oliver, you can't let Carl find out about this. He'll tell Rick and he won't want me teaching them… Please? These kids. They need to know how to survive out there if they ever have to."

I chew my lip, nod, "If it makes any difference, I don't think this is a bad idea. I don't think Carl would either."

Carol nods, "I know, but he'll still have to tell his father… So, please, don't tell him?"

_She wants me to lie? __**No, you don't have to lie, Oliver. You just don't say anything.**__ Uhh… __**Right, Oliver?**__ Yeah… right._

"Promise." I swallow my dry throat, nod. "Uh, ma'am?" Carol nods. "I know that this is important. After living out there the whole time, it would've really helped out in the beginning if we knew this kind of stuff, we kind of had to learn it all the hard way, so, I think this is the right thing to do."

"Thank you, Oliver," she says.

I nod and leave, heading back to my cell block, quickly nabbing a book at random from the fantasy section without anyone noticing. When I get to my cell, I'm not surprised to find Patrick and Carl in there. I stroll inside, sit next to Patrick on the bottom bunk. Carl's legs dangle over the top.

"What took you so long?" Patrick asks, and I see the worry in his brown eyes that are only a shade darker than mine. I frown. _What's up with him? __**He thinks that you disagree with Carol's lessons.**_

"Nothing," I reply. "I was just looking through the books." I show him the book in my hand. He's still frowning, so I mouth,_ "really,"_ to reassure him.

"What book did you get?" Carl asks with little to average interest. I slide off the bed and climb up to my top bunk with him. He scoots over, giving me room.

"Elsewhere, Will Shatterly," I read aloud, and quickly try to skim over the blurb before he asks.

"What's it about?"

_Shit._

"I kinda need to read the story first," I say, saving myself with sarcasm. Carl rolls his eyes, taking it when I hand it over to him. "You can read it if you want? I'm not that into fantasy novels. More of a horror-adventure guy. But you might like it."

He reads the blurb, so I climb off my bunk, leaving him to it, instead rummaging through the bedside table for one of Patrick's books that I've started reading, and then I read, Carl above, Patrick beside me, both of us safe, in my own room.

* * *

**Notes**

Hope you enjoyed, please leave a review x

Happy reading xx :_)_

* * *

_**Unless you want to read budding CarlxOiver fluff, then just head on over to the next chapter. Thank you and enjoy xxx Ps. excuse any tense mistakes. I've converted the following from past tense to present, and I probably missed a few. I'll get them, eventually.**_

* * *

_Bonus Chapters_

* * *

Impenetrable Personal Bubble

In the two weeks I've been here I haven't been trying to make new friends. At all. Really. Most of the time, I'm trying my damnedest to _avoid_ making friends with anyone, but I can't bring myself to go as far as being rude. Shy, uptight and an apparent and slightly questionable sanity? That's me. Rude? That's where I struggle. Too many mandatory and habitual _'Ma'am'_s and _'Sir'_s to get away with it.

But it turns out everyone around me –as everyone here knows everyone by at least name, cell block and job role– really _a__re _trying to make friends with me, and sometimes I _have to _be a little rude just so that I don't have to go along with it all.

Prison routine's fairly predictable with only a few watches and a rough idea of what month it probably is to go by that is – It's mid October, I'm around eighty-three percent sure. Life's kinda one chore after the other, and the spare time I have I devoted to reading or spending time around Pat. I see the same people when I wonder across the cell block to shower and brush my teeth every morning –though, I'll usually go a few days in between showering. And then I'll see another set of the same people at chores or while I eat at breakfast, or go to Story Time. So it's easy to assume that fairly quickly they're nodding to me. And then they're saying hello. Then, finally, someone'll start a conversation or ask to play soccer and I sort of have to go with it.

I mean, I can't just tell them to stop talking to me. I'm not Carl.

That's how I've ended up spending time with Carol when Patrick and I did kitchen chores with her, and Maggie, who's Beth's sister, in laundry. There are two nice girls about nine and eleven-years-old called Lizzie and Mika who live in my cell block with their father, and we'll go to Story Time every day, so it makes sense to be around them for most of the rest of the time, and their closest friends are Molly and Luke, so again, I end up just sort of getting used to them all. Maybe even gradually enjoying their company. But, only on a good day.

This is not a good day.

"I don't want to."

"Oliver, the Council's ordered it. It's just a meeting. Everyone's going."

"Then you'll be fine going without me. I've only been here a few weeks, they don't want me there."

"Of course they do. You're part of the family now, dude."

"Would you stop calling me that?" Patrick sighs, watching me for a moment. Somewhat sympathetically arching his eyebrows. It annoys me; his selective patience. "I don't wanna talk to them," I go on. "They're probably still laughing at me after what happened yesterday."

The day before, I'd made a complete idiot of myself in an event that consisted of a painful mixture of self-raising flour and a wet cafeteria floor that'd only just been mopped. I'm pretty sure I still have flour in my ears and up my nose.

"No one cares that you turned yourself into a living snowman."

I glare at him. "No one told me the floor was gonna be soaked."

"No one expected you to catapult yourself head over heels with a sackful of flour in your arms."

"Oh, screw off, Pat," I say into my book, gritting my teeth.

"Come on. We're going."

"No."

That was when he grabs my book.

"Hey! Give it b– no, wait. Pat!"

Now, there are only three things I love. Truly and irrevocably. The first's chocolate –haven't seen any since the day I got there. The second's my machete –Rick took it, like he'd taken all the kid's weapons. The third? My books. Patrick knows this. He knows it so well that he knows exactly what it would do to me if he threatened any one of them.

"No! Don't you dare – Pat, stop it."

"Come to the meeting. Or I'll loogie on it."

"You're fucking _disgusting_!"

That's when a string of spit leaves Patrick's lips, dangling over the page.

"No!" My hands are up as if he's aiming a rifle at me face, my mouth open, eyes wide in horror. "Pat, please!" He lets it hang lower. "Alright!" I cave desperately, raking my hands through my hair now. "I'll go!"

He sucks it up. I gag, grab the novel back and hug it to my chest.

"_Si buco di culo._"

"_Destra torna a voi, uomo,_" Patrick replies.

I swear, the only reason why I don't punch him is because he still has the bruise on his jaw from where I already did two weeks ago.

"Come on," he says. "I told Carl we'd meet him before we left."

I sigh, hugging my book tighter, convincing myself it needs my comfort after the trauma my brother's just put it through, then I find myself mumbling: "He probably thinks I'm a joke now, too."

"I think he was the only person who didn't laugh at you actually," Patrick points out.

"Doesn't count. Carl never laughs."

It's kind of true. I mean, I've seen him laugh, like the day he and I left the dodge ball game to go and read comics in his cell. But I've hardly seen him laugh since, only when he doesn't realise it like when he plays with his sister.

"Nah," Patrick says, "don't worry. He doesn't think you're a joke. He doesn't think _anything_ is." A pause. I'm not convinced. "Plus, you two are hitting it off fine."

"He's _your_ friend. He just puts up with me. Like Jamie and Conner and all of your old friends."

"That's not true," Patrick says. "Conner's cat liked you."

I roll my eyes. "I liked Cat, too. You never gave me the fifteen dollars for going to that stupid party by the way."

"And I never will."

"Asshole," I grumble, genuinely holding a grudge for that.

"Again, right back at you, man."

I stop hugging my book.

"Get your stuff and let's go."

"I'm not going."

"Oliver!"

I ignore him, going to the chair and slumping into it, pulling at my beanie. Patrick knows I'm not going to cave, and he knows I'm holding my book too tightly for him to get at it too. So he rolls his eyes and bids me a, "See you later, pansy," as he leaves our cell, strolling through D-Block with a few people also heading to the meeting.

One or two'll poke their head into my cell like they've been given permission to, and they'll ask if I'm going. "Yeah, in a minute," I tell Karen, and Sasha a few minutes later, and Zach a few minutes after that. Until it's finally just me and D-block.

Five months alone, to two weeks being with my bother again and a prisonful of new faces. I guess I'd gotten used to being alone, before. Because for the first time in two weeks I finally am again, and I realise how at home it feels. Finally reacquainted with my unspoken devotion to Solivagance. The initial realisation takes a moment for me to become aware of, but when I do, some kind of strange calm overtakes me, like the moment you walk under a blow-heater, or like the hugs I used to get from my grandpa.

I get up, tossing my book on my bed and leaning out of my cell, liking the way that whenever I think something to myself, I can think it without Patrick's or Carol's or Karen's voice interrupting.

_**Feels good, huh?  
**__Yeah. Yeah, it does._

So I do think, for a long time, going so far as mumbling to myself as I stroll around the empty cell block, enjoying my own company. I go over to the tables along the wall, smiling at Michonne's rainbow cat and a few other odd belongings. On the wall there's a carving, scratched near the floor. _'Crighton Dallas Wilton.__'_ it reads. _**Probably a prisoner or something from before. **__Yeah. Wonder if there's any carvings in my cell._

I go back, searching every wall in my cell I can see. There're no tally marks like in the movies, which I'm a little disappointed by, just cracks in the paint and weird stains that I don't want to think about for too long. But there's one place I almost don't check._**Under the bed. **_I crouched, pulling out an old empty crate. I toss my book in it, deciding I'll probably keep more in there soon, then I climb under to examine the walls. There _i__s_ something. A message. A motto, and it sends chills down my spine.

_'__NEVER PICK UP A DEAD MAN'S GUN__'_

I stare, trying not to think about the story behind the man who wrote it. Trying not to think that he might've been innocent, made to spend his whole life in here for the crime he might never've committed.

A door opens.

I startle, making a grunt, pushing myself out from under the bed and scrambling to push the crate back under. The D-Block corridors are long and echo loudly. Not even I can travel down them in total silence –close, but not completely. Every footstep bounces off the walls like water down a stream.

My cell feels too small, all of a sudden, like I'm some locked up zoo animal about to get prodded by my handler, so I grab my book, retreating to the common room and up the stairs, quickly taking a seat on the edge of the catwalk. My legs dangle over it under the banister railing, and a moment later the person rounds the corner into the common room.

The person's Carl.  
Carl freaking Grimes.  
Carl freaking I don't laugh and I'm rude and I can make Oliver feel like yacking rainbows Grimes.

He strolls across the common room, into the cell block, not noticing me. I'm wearing mostly grey, so I blend pretty well into the background. Like a toad or chameleon. I like that. Observing without causing any disruption. Watching people in their natural habitat. Watching _him _in his natural habitat. So I keep quiet. He makes a bee-line to mine and Patrick's cell. I'm pressing my face against the banister bars now because I can't see him anymore. They're leaving cold marks in my cheeks. I feel self conscious. _He'sinmycellhe'sinmycellhe'sinmycell!_ But he soon leaves upon realising Patrick and I aren't inside. _**Why'd he in here anyway? **__Pat said he was gonna wait for us._

Carl leaves, making through to go back out of the cell block, walking under me to do so. I still keep quiet, not sure if I want to announce my whereabouts or not. Aching to but at the same time not wanting to at all. Though, in the end it isn't even my choice. . .

Suddenly, there's a slap against the soul of my foot.

I gasp, startling so bad my book falls, twisting and spiralling down and away from me. I try to catch it in vain, ending up rather painfully bashing my lip against the bar. I taste blood. Only a little on the inside of my lip. I suck it.

"Hey!" Carl blurts. I hear him dodge my book. "No need to throw stuff at me."

"Sorry." I poke my cut lip, see blood on the end of my finger. Suck that, too. "I dropped it."

"Oh, Oliver?"

"Erm..."

"Thought you were Patrick."

_**Explains why he just tried to yank your foot off.**_

Pause. Awkward. So awkward I start nibbling on my lip to fill time. And time stretches and stretches and stretches. I wince when I nibble to much.

"D'you know where he is?" Carl asks.

I nod, then realise he can't see me, just my legs. "At that meeting."

Carl's quiet for a moment. I think he'll head over there but he chooses against it. _**Hmm. **__Maybe he avoids these things as much as I do. __**Maybe he's just stretching more time.**_

"Do you want it back?" he asks then.

"Huh?"

"Your book?"

"Oh." I'd forgotten about it. "Erm, yeah. Please."

Carl tosses it up, and I roll backwards on the catwalk to catch it.

"Thanks."

Another pause. Out of the two of us, Carl's most likely the one to break it, even though he barely talks more than I do. So, getting desperate and awkward again, he does: "Meeting started a few minutes ago. I-I came here hoping Patrick didn't go so we could just hang out..." he trailed. "You know, um, you too. If you wanted. If you want."

I nod, then again, remember he can't see me. "Cool."

"Cool."

It's possible Carl looks up and smiles for a nanosecond when he says this, but lots of things are possible and vastly unlikely all at once, like, a cure for the walkers, or Patrick putting away his socks, or a rain in Georgian summers.

Carl climbs the staircase to me, and he takes a seat beside me with a respectable foot or so between us, my book laid there, like a borderline that marks where our personal bubbles stop and become impenetrable.

"Find anymore comics?" I ask.

"Not yet. Michonne should bring some back when she gets home."

_I wonder if I'll ever call this place that as easily too one day._

Again, Carl broke the quiet: "So... how's your book?"

"I haven't read much of it yet." It's the novelization of The Goonies.

Carl looks away, and I wonder if his eyes close like that because he's grimacing at himself for asking or if something smells. _Do I smell? __**You can't. You showered this morning. **_Suddenly I don't feel like Carl's just some _too-cool-for-Story-Time _kid who's dad runs but doesn't really run the place, and I realise he might just be as awkward and mortally teenage boyish as I am, and so, for the first time in a while it's me who breaks the quiet. . .

"Why didn't you go to the meeting?" I ask, kind of wanting him to look at me now, and after a moment he does. . .

"Why didn't you?"

_Shit._

_Wait.  
__You can't...  
__You can't do that!  
__You can't turn it around on me like that!  
__I asked you first!_

I shrug, though, it probably looks more like a shudder. I'm looking at my lap, then realising that looking at my lap isn't where I should be looking, and so I look at him again, shrugging again, less shuddery this time, remembering to speak: "Didn't wanna talk to anybody."

Carl looked self-conscious, and he looks out over D-Block, and I realise that the way I'd said that made it sound like I didn't want him here either. Which, when I think it through, I realise isn't true.

"Plus," I add, shrugging, smiling, "I'm lazy."

He smirked. . .

"Guess we didn't go for the same reasons then."

Even with the context, I know he isn't talking about the laziness.

"What happened to your shoes?" Carl asks.

I look at my feet; dusty-looking grey socks wiggling as I flex my toes. "Left them in my cell. I... I like... sliding across the floor, sometimes."

Carl smirks at my immaturity, scoffing, "Doesn't surprise me."

Patrick was right, we must be hitting it off because now when Carl says stuff like this, it makes me want to laugh instead of just shrivel up into a dead pile of skin and embarrassment. "Found something in my cell a minute ago," I say after a moment.

Carl raises an eyebrow. My stomach squirms.

"Carving," I say, and I stop clasping a fistful of my shirt when I realise I had been. "Uh, from one of the prisoners before. Said,_Never pick up a dead man's gun... _Creeped me out."

Carl smiles a little, not looking at me. "There's one in my cell, too."

He gets up.

I assume he's leaving, doing well not to sound disappointed.

He stops. "Erm..."

I look up at him. "Oh."

"Wanna come? I was gonna show you."

I stand up, collecting my book and tucking it in my jeans. We walk through my block up to the bridge between C and D, and he pauses as we cross, looking over the compound, the outdoor cafeteria and the fields out front that the bridge gives us a vantage point to look out over. But he's staring at the fences, trying not to show how worried he is when we both see the way it jangles and bends inwards from the relentless undead pushing and clawing against it, Fence Cleaners doing their best to pick them off.

"How long do you think it'll hold?" I ask, and Carl looks at me like I've just slapped him.

"They'll hold," he says, and I don't say anything else, and he softens his expression, suddenly, like he didn't mean to say that so rudely. But he shakes it off and motions me to follow. "C'mon."

* * *

It's behind his bedside table: a carving of a girl. No, not the girl you're most likely expecting, as just about the only girl any prisoner would want to see in their cell would most likely've had a thin waist, wavy hair and larger than life mammary glands. But no, this girl's young, and it's only her face, just smaller than my palm. She's carved messily but with a kind of care that's still obvious. She's a child, and she has shoulder length, darkly coloured in hair and freckles that've been jabbed in by something sharp. A shiv is what they're called. The drawer'd even gone so far as to put a little bow in her hair and give her little clouds in her eyes for whatever colour they were supposed to represent. But the part Carl was talking about – the shocking part, is the message carved under her portrait.

_'__THOSE PILLS WEREN'T MEANT FOR YOU. MY BABY GIRL. I'M SORRY.__'_

"Jesus..."

"Yeah," Carl agrees, knelt beside me, close enough that our thighs touch when I lean up again, and we both move away, remembering our impenetrable bubbles again. "Weird, huh?"

I nod. "What do you think happened?"

Carl shrugs. "Figure the dad left some pills out. She found them and took them. Died. The dad went to jail for it."

_**I guess Carl's had a lot of time to think about it.**_

"It's kind of scary. How many stories there are in here." Carl says it quietly, tentatively, with his head back to peer around his dimly lit cell as if he's anticipating every secret tale that it might possess to jump out at him. His Adam's apple was exposed, bobbing a little as he speaks, and I wonder if his voice's lowered since the day before or if maybe I just haven't noticed it until now. "Kinda like the walls have ghosts or something."

When I've been quiet for too long, Carl lets his head tip forward to look at me. I glanced away casually, like I'd only just happened to be looking at him in the same moment, then I look back at him, lifting my eyebrows, because curious mockery is how I need to play it off without looking creepy.

"Know any?"

"Any what?" Carl asks.

"Ghost stories."

Carl thinks, then shakes his head. "I don't think so."

"None?"

Carl frowns, looking a little offended. "D'you?"

"A few," I answer, "mostly the stuff Pat'd scare me with as kids." A pause. "Can I tell you one?"

Carl nods, like he means it, but's trying not to look like it. But I notice the enthusiasm in his eyes, prodding through the shielded blueness of them, wanting me to pick up on it but too proud to say so.

I grin. "Okay, so, this guy checks into a hotel. It's late, and he's really tired. He tells the lady at the desk that he wants a room for the night. She tells him his room number and gives him a key. Then says, _"One more thing, sir. There's one room across the hall from yours without a number, it's always locked. Don't go near it. Just go right past and ignore it. Don't even peek." _A little freaked out, the guy... wh-what?"

Carl's snickering, almost laughing, his silent chest convulsions and bobbing shoulders enough to make my cheeks heat up in embarrassment, lifting my hands to pull self consciously at my beanie hat.

"No, no, nothing," he lets out a laugh. I realise I'm laughing, too. "You're just... really into the story."

"I-I can stop."

"No, it's fine."

I cock an eyebrow in doubt, pretty sure that he's just wondering how much more of a dork I can get.  
"Really," he says. "It's good... You tell it cool."

My stomach's doing that rainbow yack feeling thing again. When Carl's eyes dart to and from me awkwardly I bring my thoughts back to the story again. "Um, yeah, so, the guy takes his key and goes to his room to sleep. But later on in the night he hears water. Trickling. It's coming from the room across the hall. He can't sleep, from the water, and it annoys him. So he opens his room door. It's coming from the room with no number. The room he isn't supposed to go near. He goes to it, pounding on the wood. Nothing. So he looks in the keyhole..."

"What does he see?"

I'd only paused for a sew seconds before he asks it. So he stops, blushing from the question that'd tumbled out of him in the suspense that I apparently was managing to create even though I didn't think it would work. I try not to grin.

"Red. . ." I lower my tone, fixing my eyes on his because I have an excuse to, and Carl doesn't laugh or look away. He stares right back. So I keep talking. "All he sees is red. The water's still trickling so he goes down to the front desk to complain. He asks the lady at the desk, _"By the way, who__'__s in that room?" _She suddenly looks at him, and says, _"There was a woman in there. Murdered by her husband. Skin all white, except her eyes. . . which were red."_"

Carl's face shifts expression only for the shortest millisecond while he thinks about the conclusion, grimacing and wincing, so fast that I pretty much miss it, and I can't tell if he thinks it's scary, creepy, lame, or amusing.

"That's stupid," he mumbles, smirking now.

For a moment we just grin at each other. It's strange, but, kind of exciting; sharing the peculiar enthusiasm together. But then something clicks off, or on, in Carl's head, and he stops smiling, pushing himself to stand, looking disgruntled, like he'd just found out he failed a test.

"You okay?" I ask, not smiling anymore either.

His head whips around at me, almost startling, like he'd forgotten I was there. "Yeah," he says quickly. "C'mon."

"Where're we going?"

Carl shrugs, then walks out. I frown but follow him regardless. Not even sure he wants me to. But as we go through the cell block and down the hallway he doesn't complain, walking beside me, keeping his eyes forward and pretending not to notice when I steal quick glances at him to check that he still doesn't expect me to leave.

We get to the bridge again, seeing almost nobody around as we cross. Everyone must still be in the meeting. Carl mentions that it's about clearing a new part of the Prison soon. But the conversation sort of fizzles out there and we keep walking. It's while we're heading down the corridor that'll lead us to either the library of the cafeteria that I hear the voices. I'm a few strides ahead, rounding the corner, and I see the shadows of people advancing on us. Of course, they aren't really _advancing on us. _But it suddenly feels like it. It feels like Carl and I're hiding from the whole world together, and suddenly, I realise I don't want to come back from it yet. I want to keep sneaking around the Prison and being alone with him.

So I stop.

I do it so suddenly that Carl walks right into me. I jolt forward, his chest bumping my spine, and he gives out a gasp, quickly jumping back and mumbling his apology. But I don't reply, only stare at the on-comers, trying to stop myself from thinking we should run away together and hide, because that's stupid and immature and–

But then Carl hears them.  
I think he'll scoff and tell me to keep walking.  
But he doesn't.

He grabs my sleeve, pulls, snapping me out of my stupor. I see him dart into what I recognised is the infirmary, and I leap after him, grunting when he pulls the hem of my shirt to move quicker. _It seem__s__ he d__oes__n't want them to interfere __either__. _He rushes to quietly shut the metal doors, and I clamber to the wall beside the sink to catch my breath, and Carl follows, a little frantic, causing him to stumble into me. He freezes when the voices we recognised as his father, Daryl and Tyreese passes the door.

But I'm not thinking about them anymore.

When Carl had stumbled, he'd been so distracted that he hadn't noticed how far he had. But he's in front of me, directly. My own back's against the wall, glued to the spot, staring. His left arm is beside my shoulder, his right hanging my his side, and his head is turned to the door, his hair so close to my face that the ends of it tickle my nose.

_**Perhaps that personal bubble isn't so impenetrable?**_

My breath shakes, suddenly, some kind of electricity latching onto my chest and making it want to inhale too sharply, as if in doing so it might pull him closer. I see the freckles, scattered over his cheekbones and nose. His mouth's open a little, panting from his excursion. When he blinks his fringe is so long that a few locks of it bunch up with his eyelashes. I see the flicker of blue – the realisation of our position when his expression drops, and then he slowly turns his head to look at me.

He's still panting, so am I, more from the sudden brutal adrenaline rush that meeting our gazes has provided than the rushing, and for a few moments neither of us move a muscle. He's going to move away, I know that, he does too, but he doesn't, not right away anyway. I can see the movement though, like it's on the tip of his tongue, like he's just about to and he just needs a few moments to let my breath blow at his fringe like it's doing even though I'm trying my hardest to slow my breath. But then I realise it might be me who's stretching the moments this time.

"Sorry."

I say that too much sometimes. So much that it doesn't sound genuine when I mean it. Carl drops his hand, steps back, breaking the gaze that felt like centuries but only lasted a second or two, and his cheeks darken. "Do you need your inhaler?"

It's only then I notice my tight chest, the faint wheezing that's coming from it. So I nod, pause, then realise I'm supposed to take it as well, so I do, awkwardly and quickly, averting my eyes from him and trying not to think about the sudden butterflies mauling my gut. But I ignore it –try to, realising how ridiculous I'm being.

I look back at him. Smile. Nervously.

His hand lifts, pointing at my mouth. "Um... you're bleeding."

"Oh." I dip my head and rub at my lip, feeling the little dried droplet that I'd forgotten about. "Sorry." He shakes his head. I'm not sure why. Wondering why makes my head spin. "Uh." _Say something. Say something!_ "What do you wanna do?"

Carl almost laughs, looking a little overwhelmed. "I don't know."

I took a breath, hesitating only a moment before extending my arm and resting it on his shoulder, and with a gentle tug, he's walking with me back out of the infirmary.

"What do_ you_ wanna do?" he asks me.

I grin. "Library."

* * *

**Notes**

Recognise the name in D-Block. Crighton Dallas Wilton? Whoo :D

* * *

Mika's Stage Horse

I've been in the kitchen for a little while longer than usual with Carol this evening. Patrick had gotten off early, which neither of us really minded. Carol had been telling me old stories of her when she was a kid. For some reason, despite listening to her speak in first person, I couldn't picture her actually _in_ the stories. I think of them like the stories she reads to us in Story Time. I know she wasn't lying, of course, but for some reason I just can't imagine it – fourteen year old Carol, climbing trees, agile and fearless as she leapt from trunk to trunk and swung from branches like a wild monkey, smiling so much that her cheeks hurt, with long, curly, auburn hair that bounced like it was alive against the spine of her summer dress while she ran through her childhood neighbourhood with her friends. Even so, Carl tells a story like nobody I know. Except maybe Penelope. My old best friend from home. Penelope's stories were always great.

But anyway, we finally finished chores. It'd taken us so long because we were de-feathering seven ducks Daryl brought back to cook tomorrow. I'm still picking out bits of blue and green and brown plumage from under my nails as I turn into my cell. Out the corner of my eye I see a figure on the top bunk, half hung over the edge. At first I assumed it's Patrick and I don't bat an eyelid. But the figure's too small, and they don't murmur, "Hey, dude," to me as I walk in, and I'm pretty sure Patrick doesn't have long blonde hair either. So I look up.

"Mika."

Her head pops up. Because she's led on her back horizontally along Patrick's bed, feet swinging back and forth. She's reading a book._ My_ book.

"What're you doing with that?!"

She sits up, resting Butterfly Lion in her lap. "Reading."

"It's not yours," I snap, seeing that she's been through my book stash.

"It's not _yours_ either," Mika retorts.

"You shouldn't nose through my stuff."

"It's not _your _stuff," she argues. "There's like a hundred books under there."

Actually, there're only four books under my bunk so far. _So far_ being the words of note in that sentence.

"Well..." I fumble, "they're just there, as temporary."

"_Stealing_ isn't temporary."

"_Borrowing_ isn't stealing."

"_Hiding_ isn't borrowing."

"_Mi__ii__ika__aa__a._"

I've known Mika for the best part of three weeks, slowly growing accustom to her stickiness. I use that term on purpose, too. Because being Mika's friend _i__s_ sticky. She's like a feather, and whoever's nice to her is like the glue. She sticks to you. I wondered if it would ever stop being annoying to me. But for the best part, I actually do like her company more than I let on. So, suddenly, I start laughing.

"What do you _want_ from me?"

"You going to Story Time later?" she asks once I settle, and I nod, stepping into my cell and quickly kicking the crate she'd left out back under my bed again.

"Yes," I answer, "but you can't tell Carol about the books yet. I haven't finished the trilogy, and that one..." I point at _Butterfly Lion,_ stalling and thinking of a lie. "I'll take it back later."

But Mika's a smart kid, and she cocks an eyebrow. Though, she isn't obnoxious or deliberately irritating, despite her age, and so she takes my hint and doesn't go on about the subject.

"Come on, Mika," I smile, taking the book when she hands it to me, tossing it in its crate with the rest. "We can go now. Hang out there for a bit." I stand up, about to step forward, but before I can Mika grabs my shoulders, pulling me to stop. I grin. "You want a piggy back?"

I can almost hear her nod.

"Hop on."

So she does, with a high pitched grunt as I jump, getting her higher and more secure against my spine. She's lighter than I thought she'd be. It feels more like I'm carrying a heavy(ish) backpack rather than a living human child.

"Hold on!"

She is, so tightly that I almost gag, but she readjusts her arms around my neck, and I grip under her knees, charging out of my cell and through our cell block, hearing her giggling in my ear. When we turn around the gate corner I almost run right into Karen, who braces us, taking both of my shoulders and laughing.

"Sorry, ma'am."

Karen's eyes widen, and she grins madly at Mika behind me who is giggling hysterically, and I shake my head when I feel the tickle of her blond hair as it flops at funny angles over my neck and shoulder.

"Whoa there, guys!"

"Sorry, Karen," Mika says. "My stage horse isn't so good on his hooves."

"Hey!" I bark. They both laugh. I glare, shake my head again. "_Stage horse?_"

"You goin' to Story Time?" Karen asks, chuckling and letting go of my shoulders. We nod. "Well, try not to go hurting yourselves. Someone'll end up losing a leg like Hershel."

"Yes, ma'am," I say, heading off, and Mika chuckles, waving over her shoulder.

"How _did_ Hershel lose his leg?" she asks a few minutes later.

"Um." I think for a moment. "Heard he got bit."

"No way!"

"Uh-huh," I say. "And Hershel, he had to kill the biter with his _bear hands,_ and, to stop becoming one too he had to _chop_ off his leg _himself,_ with just a pen knife, a coke can, and his _belt._"

Mika scoffs, knowing I'm making that whole bit up. I laugh, hopping to prop her up a little, which makes her let out a funny_"whuh!" _noise in surprise.

"Nah," I say. "I don't know the rest. But I do know he got bit. Glenn told me because he was there. Told me Rick had to chop it off." Mika's quiet for a second, imagining the events in a way that I know any nine year old child probably shouldn't be imagining. "Sorry, was that too graphic?"

She nods like she's agreeing to what we're having for dinner and doesn't really like what it is. But accepting it all the same. "I wonder where it is now."

"His leg?"

"Yeah," she nods vacantly.

I shrug, propping her up again. It's surprising how quickly she keeps slipping, but then again, it isn't really. My hips are far from any kind of functioning seat, and so, despite how much she holds on her legs slip again and again. But she's so light it hardly makes a difference. "I dunno," I say finally. "Maybe they kept it. Maybe he hoards it in some jar in his cell, all minified and pickled."

"_Ew_!"

I snickered. The door's coming up. I use my foot to push it open, leaving D-block, walking through the chain link fence opposite towards the outdoor cafeteria. It's sunny out, like usual. Down in the garden I see Hershel knelt on the ground, his fake leg bent as he picks at the vegetables. Rick's opposite him, tending to the foliage, too, talking together. My eyes keep scanning, not even realising that I'm searching for anyone in particular until I find the teenager.

He's grooming Flame over in the horse's paddock.

My stomach flips.

Carl notices us, looking over Flame's orange withers and double taking. He waves with one subtle hand movement. I return it, Mika too busy holding onto my shoulders to wave, too. Then Carl turned away again, continuing grooming the chestnut horse, and so I kept walking.

"Can we go say hi?"

It's only then I realise I hadn't looked away from him yet, and I almost startle at Mika's voice, forgetting that her being so close to my face made it easy for her to tell who I was watching.

"Oh, uh, no. It's fine."

"I like him, too."

"What?" I almost bark. "I-I don't like him. W-we're just friends."

"Lucky," Mika complains. "Daddy and Michonne don't let me go near him without someone there, and Michonne's never here so I haven't been allowed to go meet him yet."

"Mika, what the...?" Confusion. So much confusion it actually hurts. "Who are you talking about?"

"Flame."

"Oh," I sigh, feeling too relieved to burst out laughing. "Oh my God. You little gremlin." She thumps my side with a little grumble of offence. "Mika, Flame's a mare, not a gelding."

"What's a gelling?" she asks innocently.

"Gel_ding. _You know, like a boy horse. Flame's a girl, so she's a mare."

"Oh," she says, realising she's been using the wrong pronouns. Not realising how terrifying that was for me. "_Right,_" she says slowly, as if wondering how she'd taken so long to realise. I laugh, propping her up again and heading into the main building.

"Where's Lizzie?"

"With Daddy," Mika answers.

"Why?"

"She got into trouble today."

"What for?"

Mika shrugged.

"Was it serious?"

"I don't think so. I think it's because she drew a mean picture of Mommy."

"Oh," I say, frowning. "Mean? How mean?"

"She drew her as a walker. Stuck it on the wall of our cell and Daddy got really mad."

"Oh," I say, struggling to push the main building door open, kicking it with my foot and then having to awkwardly use my knee so that it doesn't swing back on us. "Is she still coming to Story Time though?"

"Should be."

"Good. I think we're learning about poisons today. Like mould and chemicals from trash that's been left everywhere. Pollution and stuff."

"_Ugh,_" Mika complains. "I _hate_ pollution. It's so boring."

"Could save your life. One day if you find a well or something how will you know it's safe to drink?"

"Pretty sure I know enough about water to never die from it."

"Smart ass," I joke.

"Cuss."

A pause.

"If I die," Mika continues happily, "it'd be from _boredom._"

"You won't die."

"Why?" Mika asks, curious, and I put her down as we get to the library, stretching my back.

"Because, Mika," I say dismissively, looking at a few book titles on the shelves.

"Because what?"

"Because," I say again. . . "Kids like you, just, don't die from anything."

I didn't like the nagging anxiety in the back of my head that told me I'd just told the biggest lie I'd ever tell anyone.

* * *

Greene Reminders

"Hey," I say to Beth, leaning into her cell with a hand holding the metal bar to support me.

She looks up to me, bobbing Judith on her knees. "Hey, Oliver."

I let go of the bar and stand up properly, "Rick sent me to come get Judy. Says he's done with farming and that you've been stuck with her for long enough this morning." It's only been a month, just less, but as you might be able to tell, I have integrated myself into the prison and its people a little more. It doesn't feel so alien like it used to. Though, sometimes I do still get those _cornered zoo animal _moments.

She smiles, thanking me as she hands the baby over.

"Thanks," I say, awkwardly cradling the baby in my arms. "Hey, little ass kicker."

The baby laughs. In that strange, not really laughing but totally laughing way of hers. We're both slowly getting used to each other. Beth chuckles, glancing away to write something into her notebook.

"You write?" I ask her, stopping before I left.

"Pretty much all the time."

For a moment, all I can think of is Penelope. I can almost see the red-head led lazily across her bed, scribbling away in her precious light green notebook. Though, the girl before me's notebook was a dark green colour, and she has blonde hair, and she is not Penelope.

"Can I read some?"

Beth hesitates, her brow furrowing, and then relaxing, smiling softly. "Guess."

"Thanks," I smile. "I'll just go put Judy back."

Once I'm done taking Judith back and am on my way back through the cell block, I walk past Carl's cell, vaguely assuming he was out tending to Flame or something, but I spot him move out of the corner of my eye, startling and blurting a stuttered, "Oh!" to him because apparently my mouth's decided it's forgotten how to form words now. He jumps too. But upon realising it was only me he relaxes and purses his lips into a small, somewhat awkward smile.

Carl and his people skills.  
He's as bad at it as me.  
Almost.

"Hey."

"Hey, man," I manage.

"What're you doin' in C-Block?" Sometimes, when he isn't focussing properly, his accent got stronger. I kind of love those moments.

I motion a few cells down, "Hanging out with Beth."

I'm not sure, but I think his eyes fall in disappointment. But it's gone before I'm sure. "Yeah?" he says with seemingly little to no interest.

I nod. "Yeah, I'm reading some of her stuff. You wanna join?"

"No, I'm okay."

Carl Grimes, I've come to realise, is a very introverted teenager. Some days he'll be happy to spend hours with Pat and I, reading, playing soccer or baseball, or doing something together in our cell blocks, and then other times (more often than not) he'll go days without even speaking to us at all. If we try to hang out with him, like I did just then, he'll decline and continue doing nothing by himself. I don't mind, I guess, and I never insist he do anything he doesn't want. But it only seems to make me think of him all the more mysterious. I _want _to know him better. I want to get under his skin and understand how his strange mind works, and I have been, a little. More and more each time we hang out together. Though, I'd never have the guts to actually tell him any of that.

"See you, man," I says, leaving his cell.

Beth's put away some clothes that were on her bed before to give me room to sit, and when I do, opposite her, crossing my legs, she holds my gaze with an excited smile, a kind of gleeful sparkle in her eyes. All I could think of was Penelope.

"What do you wanna read first?"

"Anything you're comfortable with, I guess."

She thinks, tapping her pencil against her bottom row of teeth, then she leans over the bed to grab a small stack of paper, words and scribbles all over them ordered into a somewhat almost neat pile. She drops them on the bed between us, then takes a few minutes ordering them into piles. Finally she looks up at me, her brow risen.

I grin at her.

"What?"

"Nothing. You just... remind me of someone. An old friend."

She smiles, then gestures back to the paper that's now stacked into three piles. "Okay, this pile's what you can read. Jus', pick and choose. Um, obviously you don't have to read all of it, jus', you know–"

"I know," I interrupt, smirking. "Pick and choose."

She nods, "Yeah. Um, and this pile you should read if you like the stuff in that pile."

I nod, beginning to skim through the pile of literature I'm allowed to pick from. "So, what's the other pile?"

"Oh, that's the stuff I haven't shown anyone. So, I'll jus', you know, put'm all away."

"What about your notebook?"

"Oh, no. No one reads what's in there."

"Okay, promise I wont," I say truthfully.

She puts her notebook and the pile of _forbidden _literature back under the bed, watching eagerly as I choose a poem called Time.

"Oh, that's just a short one. Wrote it a while ago."

I read:

'_Time.  
_

_It's too slow for those who wait,  
__Too swift for those who fear,  
__Too long for those who grieve,  
__Too short for those who rejoice.  
__But for those who love,  
__Time is not.'_

I glance at her, "It's great."

I don't hesitate to rifle through more, not failing to notice the broad grin on Beth's face when I pick another short about a young girl and her pet dog. Only, the dog was killed maliciously by her father, thrown into a river, only to survive and run back home a few days later.

"That was inspired by a friend. Her Daddy killed her dog, so, I don't know, I guess I wrote it for her. To gave her a happy ending." Beth looks at the papers. "Not a lot of us get that anymore."

"That's cool," I say. "Can't believe he actually killed it though. That's awful."

"Yeah, did it just 'cause she snuck out once, it was her punishment. He wasn't nice. He used to scare me so much when I went over there for supper sometimes." She paused. "I could never kill someone. Not even a little dog."

I don't say anything.

"Oh, Oliver. I didn't mean..."

"It's okay. Um, I've never killed someone either, but, I once had to kill a dog. She attacked me, so, I had to."

"I get it. I just, forget to filter, sometimes."

I shake my head, changing subject, "Hand me that one?"

* * *

Beth was self conscious about her stories, and as I read she sat rigidly and nervously, occasionally blurting something to criticize her work only for me to reassure her that I liked it. Because Beth really is talented. I have a hunch not many people read her stories. Though, the avid reader I've always been, I just continue reading, and after a while Beth trusts me enough to stay in her cell and keep reading while she goes out and does her chores.

I get engrossed, rejoicing in her stories. Just like her poem said, time is too short, and before I know it it's time to go and do chores. Beth's been back for a little while, sat writing away in her notebook and softly singing a song to herself that I don't recognise but love listening to all the same.

"_It's unclear now what we intend,__  
__We're alone in our own world,__  
__You don't wanna be my boyfriend,__  
__And I don't wanna be your girl,__  
__And that, that's a relief,__  
__We'll drink up our grief,__  
__And pine for Summer,__  
__And we'll buy beer to shotgun,__  
__And we'll lay in the lawn,__  
__And we'll be good,_

_Now I'm laughing at my boredom,__  
__At my string of failed attempts,__  
__Because you think that it's important,__  
__And I welcome the sentiment,__  
__And we talk on the phone at night,__  
__Until it's daylight,__  
__And I feel clever,__  
__And I hear the slow in your speech,__  
__Yeah, you're half asleep,__  
__Say goodnight."_

"The lyrics remind me of that friend I told you about," I say.

"Yeah?"

I nod.

"Did you both drink up your grief and buy beer to shotgun?" Beth jokes.

I roll my eyes, "Not quite that part. Maybe switch the beer for orange juice." She chuckles. "No, we used to be like that. Really close, but, just as friends. Really close friends. Alone in our own world. Talking on the phone all night. Last time I spoke to her was on the phone. For hours. Can't even remember what we were going on about. But near the end, I could hear her getting tired... 'the slow in her speech'... and, we said goodnight... for the last time."

Beth's expression is so sad, and I suddenly realise I have a lump in my own throat. So I clear it.

"I gotta go do chores," I tell her, changing the subject. "Could I, uh, maybe take the last few of your stories back to my cell? I'll read them by tomorrow, I swear."

Beth smiles, nods, "Yeah. Thanks for readin' 'em. I wasn't expecting you to get so into'm all. It's nice."

I nod, "See you later, Beth."

"Oliver?"

I stop, turning to face her, "Yeah."

"Forgot your beanie."

"Oh, thanks."

But as she reaches out, her array of bracelets slide down her left arm, and for the first time I notice the collection of thin, white, scars across her wrist. I stare at them, kind of sent into a trance. Somehow, despite knowing they're self harm, the fine and slightly raised scars are... elegant. I know it sounds strange, but that's the only way I can think to describe them. But she withdraws her hand, expression dropping, glancing awkwardly from me to the floor. Her cheeks heat up.

"Um, sorry. I didn't mean..."

"No, it's okay." She tries to laugh it off. "Guess it's pretty pathetic, huh?"

I frown, pulling on my beanie. "No," I answer quietly, stepping back into her cell. "It's not pathetic." But she averts her eyes, her cheeks blushing, clenching her jaw in her embarrassment. I stutter, trying to think of something to say. "I mean, you chose to live. You wouldn't be here if you didn't... That's not pathetic... um, pretty brave, if you ask me."

She stares at me, and for a moment I'm terrified she'll cry or something. _W-what do I do?! I don't know how to comfort people. Let alone a girl! I don't know anything about girls! What if she gets mad and tares my throat out!? __**Jesus, Oliver! She's a girl! Not a walker!**_

But Beth doesn't cry.

"Yeah," she agrees meekly. "It was a long time ago. I guess I just... came back from it, you know?"

I nod, all sorts of relieved and confused.

"You know," Beth begins softly. "I heard you were alone for almost half a year before Daryl and Michonne found you... I can't imagine how terrifying that would've been. Out on the road." I shrug and dip my head. "How d'you do it?"

I let a grin work itself across my mouth. . . "I talk to myself. Like a lot."

Beth laughs, but after a moment her face falls, wanting a more serious answer.

"Got pretty tough, sometimes, I guess. For a little while I thought I'd... well, um... I was never..."

"Suicidal?"

I nod solemnly, glad she hasn't taken offence. "Yeah. I was never suicidal. But sometimes I just didn't wanna do anything at all. I just, wanted to not... _be..._ anymore. But, I'm not sure. I guess I just hoped that one day it'd get better... And it did."

Beth smiles. "I'm glad you found your brother again," she says, and then thumbs at the spine of her diary. She hesitates, but after a second I watch her tare out a page from her notebook and hand it to me. "I'd like you to read this one, too. If that's alright?"

"Really?" I ask, taking it.

She nods and lets a reassuring smile pull at her lips, and I hope I'm not being awkward or something because the very idea of reading something so personal to her is actually pretty daunting to me for some reason, but she seems to mean it, so I thank her.

"Chores," she reminds me.

"Right. Chores. See you tomorrow."

"See you, Oliver."

So with that I leave to drop Beth's stories in my cell. Patrick's already gone, and so I'm able to leave the papers under my bed next to my comics and ever-growing book stash. Then I head to the inside cafeteria to find Carol and my brother for chores.

* * *

It's the late now. Everything's quiet, with only the occasional sigh or cough or shuffle as everyone in D-block settle themselves to sleep. The perfect time for my bladder to suddenly decide it needs to go. So I hobble across the cell block from the freezing cement against my feet. I go, and it's just as I'm washing my hands that I hear something move behind me. I spin around, startling as the noise got louder, coming towards me, clumsily and heavily, grunting. My mind races, my heart hammering, adrenaline poisoning me.

A walker.  
It has to be.  
I don't know how but it has to be.

There's a crowbar on the sink edge. It's used to pry the tap whenever we have to use it – the plumbing's a little tricky in our block from the irrigation system that had been made. My hand grips it instantly, pulling it from the sink with a low, eerie ring as the metal scrapes over porcelain.

I see it come into my view, wandering towards the showers. My breath hitches, holds, terrified. The male walker ambles right past me, and I'm about to click my teeth, draw its attention and take it out before it gets someone, hoping that after so much time away from my machete it won't affect my skills in combat. But then. . .

"L-Lauren, I tried. I t-tried, but our little girl... she's gone."

_Wait, walkers talk now?  
__**It's not a walker, moron!**_

The relief swamps me whole. I drop the crowbar, letting it slip from my grasp with a loud _CLANG!_ as it hits the tiles at my feet. The man, who's very much alive and called Charlie Mannings and lives in a cell on the second floor, startles badly. I clutch my hand over my heart. "Holy fuck."

"Hello?"

"I-I thought you were a walker."

"Wh... How did I get here?" he asks.

I can't think of how to answer. I just stare, sort of clambering to pick up the crow bar and put it back, trying not to think that I was ready to slam it through his skull a moment ago.

"Oh, Jesus Christ. I was sleepwalking again."

"Again?" I ask, gulping and trying not to yack.

He nods, wiping his tired eyes and heading to the exit with me. "Yeah, happens every once in a while. More so lately after getting here."

Charlie only arrived a few months before I did. He's quiet and always seemed sad. After what I just overheard I figure it has something to do with his family, though I know not to ask. They aren't here. That only leaves one other fate for them.

"Maybe you should try locking your cell at night. It'd be terrible if you fell down the stairs or something."

"Yeah... I will," he rubs the back of his head, sighing. "You're Oliver, right? And your brother's Patrick?"

I nod as we walk out of the shower blocks.

"Sorry about scaring you back there."

"It's okay."

Charlie pats my shoulder and makes for the staircase. "Night, kid."

"Bye, Mr. Mannings."

I find a zonked out Patrick on the top bunk, so I sit on my bed and flip on my flash light.  
"Hey..." I snap my head up, seeing Patrick leaning over the bunk and glaring at me with only one eye open, the rest of his face scrunched. "Dude, turn it off."

I do as told, sending the room into black once again and waiting a long moment for him to fall back asleep, only to quietly flip the torch back on. I carefully take out the small piece of paper that's still folded in my pocket. The page from Beth's diary. So I sit back on my bed, shining the light against the page on my legs, reading:

_'__Hey. I know it's been a while. I'm gonna be honest, I forgot about you. After the farm we were always moving. But something happened. Something good. Finally.__'_

I'm not sure why, but I feel like a Peeping Tom. I mean, it's _Beth's diary._ But I reason with myself, knowing that she'd allowed me to read it, giving it to me herself. So I keep reading:

_'__We found a prison. Daddy thinks that we can make it into a home. He says we can grow crops in fields. __F__ind pigs and chickens.__S__top running. __S__top scavenging. Lori's baby__'__s just about due. She'll need a safe place when it comes. The rest of us, we just need a safe place to be. I woke up in my own bed yesterday. My own bed, in my own room. But I've been keeping my backpack. Keeping my gun close. I've been afraid to get my hopes up. Thinking we can actually stay here. The thing is, I've been starting to get afraid that it's easier just to be afraid. But this morning Daddy said something - If you don't have hope, what's the point of living?__'_

I realise why she wanted me to read it now. After what I told her she knew I'd relate to her, and I do, so I keep reading.

_'__So I unpacked my bag, and I found you. So I'm gonna start writing in you again, and I'm gonna write this down now because you should write down wishes to make them come true. We can live here. We can live here for the rest of our lives.__'_

I'm smiling when I finish, buzzing all over as I switched off my flash light and get into bed, because maybe it could be true. Really. It took a little while since I'd gotten here, but I really think I could spend the rest of my life here. Maybe we all will. Maybe we'll find more survivors, add to our numbers. Maybe I'll grow old here with everyone else. Maybe I'll even fall in love. Start a family, or, you know, not. But whatever. Maybe maybe maybe. And when I finally do die, when any of us do, because, everyone knows that it has to happen. But, it'll be quiet. We'd be with our family. And, I mean, we'd know what'd have to be done, but it would be okay. Maybe we've had had our serving of bad stuff already, and all that's left for us now is a new start. A good future.

_**Foolish naïvety, boy.**_

* * *

**Notes**

The poem "Time" was written a long time ago by my grandmother. She's my hero. The other short story about the girl and the dog was written by her too and I absolutely love it, but it's a few pages long and so I couldn't fit it in like I could for Time. She gave me her permission to post the poem.

Hope you all enjoyed xx please leave a comment/review xx

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_


	4. I'm Just a Little Confused

_**Again, the first **__¼__** of this chapter is the story progression-important part. But after that the rest of this chapter are bonus chapters and can be skipped if you want. There's a note when they start x**_

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"Wake up."

I hear someone whisper to me. But I bury my face further into my pillow, refusing to acknowledge their existence. _No, not yet. Just a few more minutes!_

"Doofus, wake up."

It's Carl. I'd know that pubescent-and-only-just-breaking voice anywhere. _**Dammit!**_

"Fhughhk ufff."

"_Okay..._" he says, and I assume he's admitted defeat and will leave me alone.

But I'm wrong.  
**THONK!  
**A hard mass connects to the centre of my forehead.

"Ow!" I growl, glaring, and he leans over my cot with my book, Butterfly Lion, in his hand. "You little shit head!" I sit up, shoving him back, rubbing my forehead as the pulsating throb subsides a little. "What do you want from me, man?!"

He just puts the book back on the dresser, ignoring my irritation, and I groan at him, almost whining, because sleeping sounds like a really nice thing to be getting back to doing right now. "C'mon."

"Why?" I cough tiredly, trying to scowl at him while I take my inhaler but all I can manage is a frown with my mouth open.

"Chores," is all he says, casually motioning out of my cell. It's only then that I notice Rick's stood right there in the doorway. _Shit! _I never cuss. Well, not in front of people like Rick. But Carl knows this. He came in here all _I refuse to smile like always _and annoyed me on purpose so that I would cuss.

"Sorry, Mr. Grimes."

Rick cocks an eyebrow in mild reprimand, leaving my cell, but I see the grin. Then I glare at Carl. He widens his eyes, faking his confusion, "What?"

"That was cold," I grumble, "even for you."

Carl does grin then. I pull my sleeping bag up when he glances at my chest, suddenly feeling self-conscious even though Carl's seen my chest before, just like I've seen his, and there was that one time I went to find Patrick's glasses after he'd left them in Carl's cell and I walked in on the boy getting dressed, but that was an accident. _**You still didn't have to stand there staring. **__I wasn't staring! It just took me a while to remember to move. __**Sure.**_ But anyway, we both agreed not to talk about that ever again.

"Get dressed," he says quickly, "we're heading out now."

"We don't have kitchen chores for another hour."

Through my squashed eye –because I'd flopped my face back against my pillow, Carl stands, swinging against the cot edge. "Patrick's already gone to chores. Started early to help out in the garden."

"That's your job."

He frowns, then says, "Dad's told me – told _us _to do something else today."

"What?"

Orange light streaks across the walls and floor. I never usually see the Prison this early, and so when I sit up and look around it takes me a few seconds to stop gawking. Colour's not something you get to see a lot around here, and so when it shows itself – whether it be with the dawn like now or Michonne's brilliant rainbow cat or vegetables... or Carl's eyes, then you kind of have to take a moment to look at it. Though, now I've gotten over the orange I'm looking at the blue, and I notice that Carl seems pretty excited about this. He told me a few weeks ago that his father took his weapons as well – stopped him from participating in anything involving walkers; keeping watch, fence clean up, runs. To be honest, a part of me can't even imagine Carl using a gun, or a knife, or even killing a walker. He kind of doesn't even talk about doing that stuff. He says he's fine with it though, but, I'm not sure I believe him.

"We're fixing that leak in the cafeteria roof. Dad told me..." It's in this moment that he puts on his father's Southern accent. "_'We're the men for the job'._" He's leaning against the doorway of my cell now, crossing his arms, smiling at me with one side of his mouth, and I'm aware that my cheeks are only getting redder and redder by the second.

I'm nodding, not really sure why.

"I'll wait outside," he says, and then he's gone.

"Jesus shit," I whisper, palming myself in the face, and then I'm shushing myself, dulling the x-rated sentences rolling around in my head. Shushing again when they get louder. Then I'm clapping my hands, counting, _one, __**two,**__ three, __**four,**_ again and again until the thoughts finally dull. "That was worse than usual."

Carl's quite undeniably become my best friend here, though I'd never say that to him. Though, that's not the only thing. Another example might be, _I have a crush on you and I kind of hate you for it. _It's dumb, I know, and it's just a childish attraction, and I try not to think about it as much as I can, which I do pretty well actually. But it's moments like just then when he uses that uncommon charm or leans against the wall with that stupid half smile that such a task becomes increasingly difficult. I know what it makes me. Or, what it doesn't make me. I've known for a long time, and I've gone back and forth about a hundred miles a minute, because it's kind of become apparent to me that sexuality, well, mine at least, isn't either-or. On the spectrum I don't know exactly where I stand, but since the Turn I've only had the same outcome: _it's pointless to worry about it because you're living in the fucking apocalypse,_and, also the occasional: _does it even matter anyway?_

_**So don't think about it and let it go.**_

* * *

**Carl's POV**

We climb a ladder up onto the main building. The roof is flat and large. Higher than I thought. I look over the edge, my breath hitching when a gust of wind throws my hair around my face. But I have missed this. The adrenaline rush. The thrill of danger. I look at Oliver, realising he's experiencing the same rush, too, because he's smiling. So am I.

"Boys."

Dad shows us where the leaks are, proceeds to teach us how to fix them. I know most of it, as this isn't the first time Dad and I have fixed a roof or shelf or car around here, but Oliver looks pretty clueless and so the tutoring is mostly for him. Almost two years of living in the apocalypse might've made him a decent walker slayer, but it has done virtually nothing in the subject of DIY. So he listens closely. We actually get the roof finished pretty quickly. The whole thing is covered in asphalt so it was simple to replace it on the areas that were damaged.

I climb down the ladder first. Dad holds the ladder steady. A few moments after I land Oliver follows, passing down the tool box to me and I set it on the asphalt. When I look up again Oliver's stood surprisingly close. I almost startle, and he grins. Dad starts climbing down above us, and Oliver checks that he isn't looking, then suddenly leans towards me, his mouth almost touching my ear.

"I've got an idea."

Then he steps away to give Dad room. I'm staring, worried I'm blushing, but still staring, wondering what would happen if–

"That should hold for a while," Dad says. He takes the tool box and heads back to the main prison building. "Thanks, you two."

I hesitate to look at Oliver again, so I just stare after Dad for a moment. I don't exactly know why I am acting like this, and to be honest it's irritating me. So I tell myself to grow a damn pair and just turn my head and look at him. Because it's not suppose to be this difficult. He's not supposed to make me so nervous. Why the hell would he make me nervous?

"What's your big idea then?" I ask, letting my eyes shift to him.

Apparently when you spend enough time looking away from somebody they end up walking away without you noticing. . . When I don't see him, I frown, confused, spinning on the spot.

"Come on, man!" I spin again, see him poking his head around the wall opposite us. "This way."

"What're you doing?"

He jogs over to me, grabs my sleeve, pulls. Oliver and I go over to the second of the main three prison buildings, and he only lets go of my sleeve when I yank it out of his hand. But he doesn't seem to notice, instead trying the door. The whole place was cleared recently. But due to the layer of blood and filth over the whole place people aren't particularly willing to go inside yet.

"We're exploring the tombs?"

"Yeah. _Ugh,_ damn door's stuck."

I look around and pick up a semi-rotten plank of wood that looks like it was once part of the door frame or something. I hand it to him, and he thanks me, wedging it into the narrow gap that he has managed to make in the door. But it hardly budges when he tries so I help him, standing opposite Oliver and pulling on the plank, grunting and contorting my face as I pull. It finally starts to give. Until the door opens with a loud SNAP. We over looked something, and so as the door swings open the plank breaks, sending Oliver crashing into me. I yelp as my back slams against the wall, winding me painfully.

"Shit! Sorry, man."

"_Ugh..._ it's fine."

He's hunched worse than I am, "I'm so sorry."

I wince, resting my hands on my knees, catching my breath again. "Tell me… why we didn't… see that… coming?"

"I did know that was gonna happen," Oliver says. "You're stronger than I thought." He stops, scowling when I smirk. "Don't take it personally. Ass."

I cough and laugh and nod, "I can't breathe."

"Now you know how I feel all the time," he pats me on the back.

"I'm gonna need a puff of that stuff you gotta take," I joke, coughing again.

He takes my shoulder and pulls me into the building. "Come here, man."

I follow him inside and he closes the door, guides me to lean against the wall. I don't know exactly what he's doing as he pulls my shoulders down into a hunched position, taking y hands and placing them on my knees, but I go with it regardless.

"Okay?" he says. I nod. "Now breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth, nice and slow."

I do what he says, exhaling through my mouth, inhaling through my nose, my pace guided by his hand as it raises and lowers in front of me. I cough again, but after a little while, my breathing begins to calm again. "How'd you know how to do that?" He pats his pocket where he keeps his inhaler, and I wonder why I hadn't thought of that yet. "Oh, right."

"Come on," Oliver motions into the building, "you gonna be alright?"

"Yep." I walk past him, leading the way down the corridor. For a short moment I wonder if he'd been grinning, but when I look back to see he isn't. "So, what're we doing in here?" I ask. "What's your _idea_?"

Oliver fumbles around in his pocket and pulls out some batteries, places them in my hand.

I frown, put them back in his hand. His hand is clammy. Mine, too, actually. "So?"

Oliver doesn't answer me, only rolls his eyes and pockets them, so I follow him, and we walk through a series of hallways and small rooms. Oliver doesn't stop to look around.

"So much for exploring." From spending so much time with Oliver over the last month I have gotten pretty good at sarcasm.

"We're looking for a wreck room. Somewhere with a radio or a boom box. Do you know if they have music rooms in prisons?"

"Uh, I don't know," I say, walking ahead and turning as I walk, cocking an eyebrow. "I didn't take you for a music enthusiast."

"Huh? Oh, y-yeah, I guess…" He shrugs. "It's alright. I just thought it'd be nice to find something, you know? What about you?"

I shake my head and walk beside him again, "Only thing I cared about before was Science Dog."

"Same, I guess, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't spend some days doing nothing other than listening to Vance Joy on the porch," he says. "I'd sit and read and listen _all day, _get yelled at for not doing any chores. But it was awesome. Swear if we don't find something other than snoring to listen to my ears're gonna run away. And everything's so grey here that my eyes are already contemplating suicide."

I frown at him.

Oliver laughs, "I'm kidding."

I look away, kind of relieved.

"You help though," he says a moment later.

I look at him, "What?"

"You have colour," he says like it's obvious. Then points. "Blue."

I'm smiling, not sure if I'm blushing or if it's because we'd walked into the light of the sun. Oliver's smiling, too. "So, what else were you into before?" I ask then, looking away, and then looking back, but laughing, so looking away again, scratching my eyebrow. "You know, before the Turn."

Oliver shrugs, "Nothing really." He opens a door into a wreck room. "You check over there and I'll do over here."

We search; drawers, cupboards, supply closets, bookshelves. But nothing. No radio, MP3 player, boom box. "Can't find one," I say, but when I look up from the cupboard I don't see the teenager. "Oliver?" No answer. I walk across the room. "Oliver?"

"In here."

I sigh, following his voice to the next room along. It's smaller and filled with old newspapers and magazines with sewing machines on rows of desks. He's sat at a desk farthest away, a small paperback in his hand, eyes skimming the text. I smirk and walk over to him, hopping onto the desk in front of him next to the sewing machine, rocking my leg. I read Twins on the cover of the book, and when Oliver doesn't look at me I nudge his knee with my shoe. His eyes shoot up at me.

"Is it good?" I ask.

Oliver doesn't look away from the book, hums, "I've read it before."

"It looks like something for girls."

Oliver looks up at me, frowns, "It's a genre. Doesn't mean I can still read it if I want to."

I roll my eyes. "You know what I mean."

Oliver's got this thing about that kind of stuff. It's kind of awesome. Ridiculously awesome. Ridiculously awesomely uncoolly cool. But he either doesn't care if people think it's odd or he's just totally oblivious to it. Take the other day for instance. Beth was painting her nails. Ten minutes later Oliver turned into my cell with a tiny braid in his hair and two red thumbnails. He still has some on his left one. When I asked why he'd let her paint them he just shrugged and wiggled them in front of himself, frowned and mumbled, _"Kinda like it." _and I called him a dork and he smiled and grabbed a comic.

"So, why are you reading it if you've read it already?"

He puts the book on the table next to me, looks up. "It's nice to re-live how I felt when I read it a few years ago."

"How did it make you feel?"

"I can't remember," he says glumly, looking away, frowning. "Sometimes it feels like I can't remember anything from before. Kinda miss it, a lot."

I sometimes try to remember things from before the Turn, but it's difficult. Kind of sad, too, because I completely took advantage of it all when I had it, but now I'd do pretty much anything to go back. Like I miss Mom asking how my day at school was. Or when I'd get so invested in a great TV series and then feel totally lost because I'd have to wait seven months to watch the next season. Just little things like that. I miss them, too.

"Um. Whatever though," he says nonchalantly.

"You can tell me, you know, just so you know."

"Thanks, man," he says, means it, too. But then he smirks. "But if you keep up the sap I'm gonna yack."

"Whatever, douche bag."

He slips the book into the back of his jeans, and I snicker, turning and leaving through the wreck room, Oliver following. I'm about to turn around and ask him if he'll let Beth paint all his fingers next time –not entirely sure if it's more to tease him or just out of curiosity, but before I can decide my vision suddenly darkens. I gasp, try to pull whatever is covering my eyes away.

"Oliver! What're you d–"

"No, no, wait."

Surprising, even to me, I do as he says and drop my hands. Well, not drop them entirely, more sort of scramble to grab his wrists just to be sure of where they are. It's a bandanna, or something –probably something he found with the machines. He ties it around my head.

I purse my lips. "So, what is this?"

He's quiet, but I can tell he's trying not to laugh. I find myself grinning, too, my hands jolting as he moves his own, and then he takes my shoulders and pulls me to start spinning on the spot.

"Oliver?" He's still spinning me, like I'm a fly caught in a spider's web. "Oliver! I'm gonna be sick."

"It's a game," he explains, and I can hear the beaming smile on his lips. "I used to play it with Pat when we were kids."

"What do I have to do?"

Oliver stops, sets me straight. "Okay, so you're completely disorientated, right?"

"Yes. I'm real dizzy now. You let go I'm gonna fall."

"Oh, sorry." Oliver takes my shoulders, holds me steady, but I sway, my head spinning. Oliver has this laugh where it sounds all lazy and slow. I kind of think this laugh is awesome. So I chuckle, too, dip my head, feeling vulnerable and blind. "Okay," he whispers –I'm not entirely sure why, "so I'm gonna let go in a second. When I do, I'm gonna hide and you gotta try to find me."

"What happens if I win?"

I hold my breath when he steps closer, the pressure on my shoulders shifting. "What do you want?"

The bandanna rubs against my eyebrows when I frown, trying to concentrate, failing. "Uh. Erm. What?"

"If you win," he says.

"Oh, erm... what?" My chin tips up, and it's only then that I realise how close he's stood to me. I'd felt the hair of his fringe. I almost startle, but it seems to jolt the rationality back into me. "Oh! Right. Yeah. If I win... um... you gotta tell me what that book really made you feel."

"I told you. I don't remember."

"Fine," I relent. "Then if I win you gotta let me wear your beanie."

Oliver laughs, "Ha! Okay, fine. But if I win... you gotta answer three questions about yourself."

"Deal."

"Alright. Ready?"

I nod in confirmation, and Oliver drops his hands from my shoulders. Then there is only total silence. I stay there for a little while, wondering if he's even gone to hide yet. My hands raise, carefully reaching out, but he isn't there. "Cool..." Then I realise he's probably still in here, so I clear my throat. "Uh, I mean. 'Cause I didn't hear you walk away."

No answer, obviously, and I want to cringe for being so dorky. But I begin my search, stumbling clumsily around the wreck room, tripping over the corner of the stupid couch.

"Oliver, at least make _some _kind of noise. This is impo–" Something roll across the floor right in front of me. I jump out of my skin. "_Oh_ jeeze!" Once I settle, I follow the noise, reaching out, bumping into cabinet corners and chairs. "_Ouch._"

"You're so bad at this."

Behind me. I spin on my heel, ripping off the bandanna. Oliver's grinning. I'm glaring. "How am I suppose to find you if you're so quiet?"

"Try again." He the bandanna from my hand, walks around me, and I glare at him as he does but don't say anything against it. "I'll show you," he says, his voice suddenly soft and dubious. "Come on, man. It might be useful one day."

I relent, and I'm sent into darkness again. His hands are on my shoulders, and they slip slightly, and I hear him exhale, and there's a short pause in which I expect him to say something, but he stays silent.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Y-yeah. Erm. Yeah, okay..." He shuffles his feet. "Hear that?"

"Yep."

"Okay, just follow my footsteps."

I listen, walk after him, but I lose him again.

I grimace. "I can't hear y–"

"_Shush. _Stop talking and stay quiet for a moment. Slow your breathing. Focus. Listen."

I sigh impatiently, but comply, searching with my ears for any kind of noise, and breath or shuffle or tick. Something to my left – the opposite direction Oliver spoke. I have to admit, he's good at this. I reach my hand out, and I feel skin. It's soft and warm. A forearm. I let go, whisper, "I win."

"No way I let you find me," he argues, stepping closer to me. He tries to untie the bandanna, but struggles. "Think I tied it too tight."

"Ow. Jeeze!"

"Sorry," Oliver chuckles, finally untying it. Then he kisses my forehead. I have enough time to startle before Oliver has pulled away, removing the bandanna. I squint for a second, almost wincing, adjusting to the light, aware of the tornado of butterflies in my stomach as I focus on the picked off red nail varnish on his left thumb, looking up to the tiny golden flecks in his brown irises, watching them pulsate around his pupils.

Then he steps away.  
I do, too.

"Let's go," Oliver says, frowning, and he pinches his lips in his fingers like he is scolding them. "We gotta keep looking for the music."

* * *

"–anctu–"  
_...static..._

So, Oliver and I found a music room. We guessed it was used to educate the prisoners. There are computers at desks along the back wall of the classroom, and three rows of desks in the middle of the room. Strangely there is a couch in one corner of the room too, all moth eaten and covered in a layer of dust, a dried blood stain splattered across the left side.

"–for all–"  
_...static..._

I've never played an instrument before. Not a guitar or a... what was it? A tambourine. Yeah, not one of those either. The same can't be said for Oliver. Apparently Oliver can place a ukulele, and it turns out he's an expert at the James Bond theme tune. He said Pat bought him a ukulele for his tenth birthday and that he'd learnt to play on YouTube. I used to use YouTube to watch Minecraft walkthroughs

"–mmunity for–"  
_...static..._

We'd found the cupboard. It was full of instruments.

"–Those wh–"  
_...static..._

There was a radio, too. Battery operated.

"–ive, sur–"  
_...static..._

We set it up and switched it on. Didn't think we'd hear anything.

"–rminus."  
_...static..._

We were wrong.

"–ry for all. Co–"  
_...static..._

But then her voice stops, and the white-noise takes over. We stare at the radio, then turn to look at each other in unison.

"Whoa..."

"Yeah," I agree. "Whoa..."

A pause.

"There're others..."

Oliver thinks, frowning. "It's pretty weak. Long way away. Could it be that place... uh, Berrywood or whatever?"

"Woodbury." I'm frowning, trying not to think of the man that ran the place. The story of The Governor and Woodbury has somewhat become a legendary tale amongst the people who weren't involved in it –Oliver included no matter how serious I am when I talk about it. "And no, it won't be. It's burnt to the ground now."

Oliver nods, "Well, wherever this is coming from it's probably dead by now."

"Why'd you say that?"

"It was on a loop, she said _'for all'_ a bunch of times. It was probably some refugee camp somewhere ten-thousand miles away that thought they could save everyone, but died along with the rest of them."

I frown at him, not used to him being this oddly pessimistic. But I agree with him. "Yeah, probably."

"Hold on a second, I got an idea."

I roll my eyes, "_Another_?"

Oliver scoffs and crosses the room, stops in front of a CD rack. He blows on it, disrupting the thick layer of dust to create a big cloud in front of him. He waves it away, but still ends up coughing violently.

"Do you have it?"

"Y-yeah," he nods, breathless, reaches into his hoodie pocket, and pulls out the blue inhaler. I wince, then stop. Like nothing had happened, Oliver simply pockets the Ventolin and continues his search. I guess he's just used to it by now. I'm not. I'm still wincing, watching him, worried and tense, and he rummages through the CDs until he finds one he likes, grins at it.

"Oh, man," he smiles at me.

When he hands it over I read, _Noah and the Whale_. I have never heard of it, or, _them._ But I can see the anticipation and excitement in Oliver's expression, so I quickly put the CD in the radio, fumbling when I can't find the right button.

"You gotta switch it to CD," Oliver chuckles, doing it for me.

* * *

"**Give it all Back" by Noah and the Whale**

* * *

I'm listening, and Oliver's head starts bobbing. I snicker at him, and he grins and turns it up. It's actually pretty good. Then Oliver grabs my wrist, pulls me over to the couch. I sit, expecting him to, too, but he stands up on it, starts jumping. I jolt, "Hey."

"Come on, man! Live a little!"

Then Oliver reaches down and pulls me to join him. I stand, keeping balance, rolling my eyes, letting him hold onto my wrists and sway us to the music. "You're such a dork!"

"Dork and proud, man!" Oliver laughs, and then I laugh, and then with one last eye roll I start jumping, too.

"_Well I'd give it all back just to do it again,  
Yeah I'd turn back time, be with my friends,  
Yeah I'd give it all back just to do it again,  
Turn back time, be with my friends."_

I'm thinking about earlier. It's no big deal. I mean, I kiss Judith on the forehead all the time. Maggie kisses Beth and Hershel on the forehead all the time, too. Like a family thing. I realise that Oliver isn't family, but he might as well be. He's my best friend, and I–

"I won, remember?" Oliver breaks my train of thought.

I'd stopped jumping, and the next song is playing now. I watch him through my eyelashes. But I look at him normally when I realise I'm not trying to flirt with him, not exactly sure if that's even flirting anyway. I'm not even sure I know how to flirt. But I push my confusing thoughts away and respond to him. "How many questions?"

"Three."

When he said that his under-bite had jutted out a little. It makes me smile. "Oh, well now I'm scared."

"You should be," he jokes, then slumps down onto the couch, careful enough not to disrupt too much dust. I sit, too. "Okay. Question number one: what's your favourite childhood memory?"

"Um. Oh, okay," I start. "We used to have a swing outside our house. Dad made it from an old tyre. Hung it from the tree in our front yard. I used to always sit – well, lie in it. You know?"

Oliver nods, smiling.

"This one time, when Mom'd made these cookies. They were so gross. I went out there and hid them in the tyre. Thought I was so smart. But, went back inside and didn't realise the cookies were all over my shirt. Dad saw, and he just gave me and knew shirt and put the dirty one in the machine, said, _I hate 'em, too_... It's not even that funny, but, yeah. That's my favourite."

Oliver smiles, "That's awesome."

I shrug, "What's yours?"

"I don't know. Probably when me and Pat accidentally set fire to a mattress. It was in some douche-bag-farmer's field. It was suppose to just be a prank, but it almost caught the whole barn alight."

I scoff. "Did you get caught?"

Oliver shakes his head, "Close. Farmer came out while we were trying to put it out, aimed his gun at us. We ran like hell. Left the old douche to put it out himself. He did, by the way."

I grin, but it fades when I remember setting Hershel's barn alight.

Oliver notices. "I still have two more questions."

"Shoot."

"Favourite colour?" he asks.

I shrug, "Whatever really… uh, blue or green… I guess."

"Alright. Okay, umm." He hesitates then. I cock an eyebrow, chucking his arm with my fist. "Your first kiss, on the lips. Or your first girlfriend, or whatever."

I frown, then shake my head.

"Really?" he asks.

"Yes." I roll my eyes. "I'd only just turned twelve. Of course not, and in case you hadn't noticed there aren't many single girls with a pulse around here, are there?"

"Beth?"

"_Single _girls. And I don't have a crush on her. Anymore."

Oliver looks close to bursting out laughing, and something else, too, like he's genuinely curious about this. "What about Teddy?"

I frown, "She's five years older than me, and anyway she's got a thing for Patrick."

Oliver turns to me, wide eyed. "Whoa... I thought he was lying about that."

"What about you?" I ask.

To my surprise, Oliver nods. "Her name was Penelope. She was my best friend and it just kind of, happened... I was twelve." He'd mocked me at the last part.

I shove him in the side, "Ass hole."

He stumbles, laughs. "We only kissed the one time, but we were never, you know, like that."

I can relate, thinking of Sophia. We were close, like Oliver and Penelope. Sophia even kissed me on the cheek once, but being so immature and stupid I wasn't impressed at all. But we were never romantic.

"Like me and Sophia." Oliver nods. He knows about Sophia after she came up in a conversation a few days ago. I told him all about her and how she died.

He and I stay in the music room for the rest of the album, talking for a little while, and then not talking at all, just slouching and doing nothing other than listening. Oliver starts reading after a while, and I play with the tambourine, and it's fun despite not really doing anything, so fun in fact that when the album does end we almost consider listening to it again, but Oliver gets up, switches the radio off and puts it away.

"Come on. We should head back before they notice we have gone."

It's not until we're about to go our separate ways back to C and D-Block that Oliver speaks: "We should tell your Dad what we heard on the radio."

I shake my head, "He'll know we were in there... and besides, like you said, there probably not even there anymore."

"Oh my god! Carl Grimes is actually going to keep a secret from his Dad? That's new."

"What_ever,_" I moan.

"See you, man."

"See you." He smiles. I smile, too, because I'm looking at his under-bite again. "Uh."Butterflies. So many. "Yeah, later."

I watch him leave, and I'm thinking about how he kissed my forehead. I'm wondering what would happen if I kissed his forehead, but I stop, burying that.

I'm just a little confused...

It doesn't matter.  
We're good, just like everything else.

* * *

**Notes**

Hope you enjoyed x

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_

* * *

_**Unless you want to read budding CarlxOiver fluff, then just head on over to the next chapter. Thank you and enjoy xxx Ps. excuse any tense mistakes. I've converted the following from past tense to present, and I probably missed a few. I'll get them, eventually.**_

* * *

_Bonus Chapters_

* * *

Boys Will Be Boys

"Alright," Carol says, gathering up the pistols and rifles. "We'll finish brushing up on a few things tomorrow." I snap all of the rifle parts together and hand it back to her. "You're really coming along with it, Oliver. Well done."

"Thanks," I say, trying not to think of how useless I'd be actually using the thing.

Patrick's having trouble reassembling his pistol so Carol gives him a few more minutes.

"Pat?"

His eyes shoot up to me, "What?"

"You haven't turned the safety on."

"Glocks don't have a safety," he frowns.

"No," I say, "that one's got a custom kit. See?"

Patrick blushes, realising what the extra equipment is for. "Oh..."

I laugh.

"So what?" he grumbles. "It doesn't have any ammo anyway."

"Good thing, too. You're pointing it at your face. If there was ammo you'd blow your brains out."

He growls his sigh, relenting and handing the weapon over, "Just do it."

I take the weapon, assembling it and talking him through the steps on how I do it, and he does well not to show how emasculated he really feels, and I make an effort not to be patronising even though I want desperately to be. He takes the gun back to Carol and she dismissed Story Time.

"Oh, boys?"

Patrick and I turn to her.

"The water's been running dry since yesterday. Think there's a clog in the filter again." Apparently this happened a few months before I arrived, too. "Would you mind helping out with it?"

"Yeah sure," Patrick says. "What do you need us to do?"

"Well, we kinda need a distraction. For the walkers..."

I can't help but tense. "You want us for bait?"

"No," Carol blurts. "No, nothing like that. I mean, you will, kind of. But you'll be behind the fence. We just need you you to keep the walkers interested while Rick and I go and unclog the filter."

I relax. Only slightly.

"You don't have to," Carol says.

"No, we'd be happy to," Patrick says, giving me a passive-aggressive glance, "right, Oliver?"

I swallow. "Yeah. R-right."

Carol smiles, "You ready to go now?"

"Ready."

Carol leads the way past the watch tower towards the overturned bus, walking far enough ahead for me to mutter my reluctance to Patrick without her hearing. "What're you doing?"

"Stop being such a baby, dude," he grumbles. "I've done this before with Beth. We'll be behind the fences the whole time. Safe. Swear."

"I'm not being a baby," I hiss. "I just don't want a repeat of before. Another five months alone doesn't really sound appealing to me." Patrick dips his head, and I know I've crossed a line. "Sorry. I-I just..."

He forces his smile. "I get it."

I know I'm lucky he let my comment go so quickly, aware of the guilt in my gut, so I keep my mouth shut, taking a deep breath as we head down the driveway, tiny pebbles cracking under my sneakers.

"Look," Patrick says, "the fences're strong. Tall. It's not like out there. We're safe, in here, now. And we will be for a long time. Also, I know Carol, and Rick. They'd never do anything to put us in any real danger." I have to admit, his confidence helps.

"You ready, Rick?" Carol calls across the front yard.

The man emerges from Flame's shelter, brushing bits of hay off of his jeans. "Yeah, we'll be right out!"

I notice the horse isn't in the pen unlike the day before. I'm about to ask Carol where Flame is, but I double take at the paddock when Carl walks out behind his father, getting his hair out of his eyes with a quick head jerk.

Butterflies again.  
Like usual.

I look away and follow Carol and Patrick. "Looks like Carl's helping, too," my brother says. I see him grinning at me with an alarmingly knowing look on his spectacled face. "Does that change your mind?"

I shoot him a glare. It's so ferocious that it takes _me_ off guard. "Why would it?"

He shrugs, the corners of his mouth curving downward to pretend he doesn't know. _**Pretend...? Oliver, do you think he's on to y–**_But he keeps walking. I stare. A moment passes and I shake off the short adrenaline rush, remembering to keep walking, too. We get to the fences, Fence Cleaners already going at the walkers like machines, impaling skulls in repetitive concession. We walk past them until we get to the fence opposite the stream on the West side of the Prison. The sun shines down on the river, making the slightly brownish water sparkle, rippling in the breeze. Carol stops by the cut open part of the fence that's tied with a tight red wire.

"They took out thirteen clusters yesterday," she says, "so there aren't a lot around. But if you do see any, Rick and I need you to wave your arms around and shout for them. Don't touch the fence, just, you know, get close enough to attract their attention."

We nod.

"Carl's gonna help, too. He's done this before." I must look worried, because she's talking more to me than anyone else. "Patrick, too."

Rick and Carl make their way over. Rick asks, "You ready to do this?"

Patrick and I nod, "Yes, sir."

"Alright, we'll be out there for only a few minutes. Keep 'em occupied. Any that get too close to us, we'll deal with."

"Well," Carl speaks then, "should one of us have a gun. Back up if you get caught out?"

"Doesn't sound like a bad ide–" Carol starts, but. . .

"No," Rick says, frowning a little more than I think he means to. "We'll be fine. Just keep'm occupied."

The boy shrinks, "Sorry."

Carol's watching Rick with a look that makes me think she disagrees with him, but she keeps her mouth closed. _**What do you think**__**Rick would do if he ever found out about Story Time? **__I don't wanna know. _With a nod exchange between him and Carol, they unlink the fence and close it behind them, machete's drawn as they make their way to the river. Carl's pacing the fence, watching closely. Patrick and I mimic him. Though, less intense about it. Over by the river, Rick and Carol arrive. Carol crouches on the bridge, fiddling with the hose that she'd pulled from the water. Rick stands close by, keeping watch, glancing to the three of us occasionally to make sure we're alright.

"How was Story Time?" Carl asks us.

"Good. We finished _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland _today," Patrick says, because it's true. In the few minutes that one of the kid's parent's were lingering around, like they sometimes do, Carol finished the story. Some days we really do just read though, but it's mostly so that people don't get suspicious that it's taking us weeks to finish one book.

Though, Carl's more intuitive than I thought. "Didn't you guys start it over a month ago?"

I make a concerted effort not to look at him. I'm not a talented liar in the first place. Lying to _Carl _on the other hand is a whole knew ball game. There are far too many freckles and blue eyes and brown hair follicles flopping all over the place to focus properly.

"Y-yeah... but, uh," Patrick stumbles over his sentence. "Someone put the book back in the wrong place so we couldn't find it for a while. So we've been doing school stuff, but a few days ago we found it and kept reading again."

Carl nods. Honestly, I don't think he even cares. His attention's far too fixed on his father and Carol.

"Where's Flame?" I ask after a moment, and Carl glances at me. It occurs to me in the same moment that I haven't actually spoken to him in a few days now, or made eye contact with him, or outwardly acknowledged his existence. It also occurs to me how good it feels to do all of that in this one single moment. It's like taking my inhaler after having to run too long without it.

"Out with Michonne," he says. I'd eventually learnt that she and Daryl were searching for a man known as the Governor. But shortly before finding me the two concluded that his trail went cold. They were on their journey home when they ran into me at the candy store. Daryl hasn't gone to look for him since, and even though Michonne says her solitary runs are to look for supplies further away we all know she hasn't given up. "She left this morning – said she'd bring us back some comics."

I smile, looking at Rick and Carol again. "How long's she gonna be gone this time?" I ask next. "I thought she'd only been home a few weeks." Michonne had left for a run about three days after finding me, and only returned two weeks ago after being gone for almost two months.

"Probably another month or so," Carl says.

"Did you say goodbye?"

"No," he says, suddenly serious. "She'll be back. She always comes back." He started trailing. "You don't need to say goodbye if they're coming back."

"Walkers!"

At Pat's alarm, we spring into action. Two of them, ambling towards the water, far right. I start clapping. "Here!" I yell, jogging to the closest part of the fence to them, Carl and Patrick, too. The walkers growl, bee-lining to us, reaching through the fence with rotten fingers. It's working, and they're so distracted by the three of us they don't even notice Carol and Rick, and in a few minutes the two are finished, jogging back over to us, quickly dispatching the two walkers without incident and retreating through the fence again.

"Water should be working now," Rick says, tying the fence, a stray walker slamming itself against the mesh in the same moment he clips it closed.

"How long do you think it'll stay clear for?" Carl asks, the five of us heading back towards the car park.

"'Bout a month. Hopefully," Carol answers. "It's simple to clear it, it's just getting' out there that's dangerous. You kids should't have to be made to act as walker bait." I smirk at her.

"I could build something," Carl offers. "Like something that'll make a noise if you have to go out alone."

Carol smiles, "If you can. Go ahead."

"Can I use the scrap over by A-Block?"

Carol nods.

"Karen, Ty'n Glenn're off duty for a few hours," Rick tells him, "you can ask one o' them to help you carry what you need."

Carl's expression tenses, "I'll manage."

Carol, Patrick and I head to the kitchen. Rick heads back to C-Block to tend to his daughter, and Carl heads over to A-Block. At breakfast, usually Carol only really needs one other person to help her, and today it's Patrick's turn. But like usual I automatically go with them for the sake of it, like Patrick usually does on his mornings off, too. Only, today I kind of have other plans. . .

"Ma'am?"

"Hmm?"

"May I be excused?" I ask when she opens the barbecue. "I was wondering if I could give Carl a hand."

Carol shrugs, "Yeah. We don't need another hand. I'll need you for supper though."

"Yes, ma'am," I say gratefully.

Patrick doesn't bat an eyelid. Patrick's never been one for DIY, neither have I. But when there's a Carl Grimes added into the equation it doesn't sound all that torturous.

"See you for supper," I say.

* * *

Carl's rummaging through the neglected scrap metal against the wall when I find him. It'd been left there for lack of a better place to put trash we don't know what to do with. There's odd stuff like desks and tables and bicycles and other random furniture and objects. It's out of the way, here if anything needs replacing or reusing, which makes it perfect for what Carl needs.

"Hey," I say to him. "Thought you could use a hand in making this thing."

Carl glances at me, a brief exchange of eye contact taking place as he thumbs at a cracked light bulb in his hand. He's wearing some khaki jeans, a grey long sleeve, a navy flannel and a pair of his usual brown hiking boots. "Did Dad send you to help me_carry _it all?" he asks finally.

"No," I answer, frowning, "I wanted to help."

"D'you even know anything about this kinda stuff?"

"Well, no."

His brow flickers up, annoyance or amusement I can't tell. Maybe both.

"Look, you either take my help or I can just go," I say. Carl doesn't budge.

Over the two months I've known him we've formed quite a close friendship that both of us are aware of but never speak about or outwardly appreciated, and I've learnt how to get through to the stubborn teenager. My method doesn't work all the time. But I have this knack of being so sarcastic and subtly persistent in such a way that it usually works to get what I want. Sneaky, I know. But it's part of being his best friend that I find most challenging. Most of the time, figuring out the jigsaw puzzle that is Carl Grimes, is actually kind of the most fun thing ever.

"And you'll be alone," I go on, making it obvious he's stuck with me whether he likes it or not. "With no one to tell you how _great you are at building _and how _skilled you are _and how _I can only hope that one day I can be as cool as you are._" I begin to beg, pretending to be desperate by putting my palms together and bouncing on the spot._ "Please? Oh, please, Carl? Please!" _That earns me a grin. A wide one. He doesn't mean to let it suddenly burst over his expression, but it does, and I take it as a success. "So," I say, serious, "do you want my help or not, man?"

He lets out a giggle and motions to the scrap stash in relent. It takes me a moment to get over the fact that I've just heard Carl Grimes giggle. "Look for a few metal rods," he says. "'Bout this long." He shows a two meter gap between his palms. "But, you don't have to say all that stuff."

"I wont."

He shakes his head, rolls his eyes. I find the metal rods, a ball of twine and a few odd metal objects, and Carl finds a long, wooden crate and about four mismatched bicycle wheels, one tyre that he detaches from an old, cut-in-half bike that's other end was used for a manual motor over by the water pump. With everything in our arms, we head down to the overturned bus by the gate, intending to assemble the contraption there. "Can you grab the tool box?"

I nod, "Where is it?"

"Outside Flame's paddock."

I go and grab it, reading the small, white writing on the side of the box. "Who's, _Dale Horvath_?" I ask when I get back to him, but Carl almost winces, freezing in place for less than a second before shaking his head and shrugging as nonchalantly as he can.

"Dunno."

I don't have any reason to question him, so I set it down next to him, taking refuge in the shadow of the overturned bus, failing to properly notice the guilt punching my best friend in the gut. Though, when I'm about to ask if he's okay, Carl places the crate on its side to act like a sort of tall table, then takes a metal rod and places it on the dirt. "Hold it still a sec?"

I do as I'm told, gripping either end of the pole. He takes a hammer and nails from the tool box, lines a nail about two thirds the way up the rod. It's only then we realise our faces are only a few cementers apart. I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek, the tickle of his hair as it grazes my temple, and at the same time we both lean back to be at a more socially acceptable distance. I do horribly to pretend that carnivorous butterflies aren't devouring me alive right now, because my cheeks are scalding and my breathing is too fast.

But I ignore it.  
I ignore everything about it.  
I even ignore the small part at the back of my head that's wondering if he's feeling the same way.

Carl holds the nail in place, raises the hammer, and then the hammer comes down on it, gently at first, coaxing the thin metal into its place, then once it is he hammers with more force, until the nail's impaled it all the way through.

"What's it for?" I ask as he uses the cloved end of the hammer to pry the nail back out.

"I'm just using the nail to poke three holes through each of the rods, then we'll tie them to the top of the crate and attach the wheels and tins to the ends to make noise. Probably use parts of the bicycle crankset to help it move, too."

I nod, not really understanding but watching as he hammers another two holes on each end of the rod, then when he's finished Carl repeats the process again with the rest. By this time both of us are sweating despite the shade. Georgian weather's ridiculously hot, even in the late fall when the weather would be turning back home in Virginia right now.

I've never thought about how someone could be attractive when perspiring, but I find myself unintentionally glancing at him every few moments, my subconsciously blowing pupils catching beads of sweat rolling down his forehead to his jaw, and then trickling down his neck and soaking into his flannel collar. His skin seems to glisten. Locks of his fringe stick to his forehead and cheeks, in clumps, and he has sweat patches over his back and chest that somehow still look like they're supposed to be there in some naturally mesmeric way that only Carl seems to be able to pull off and make so damned captivating.

Call me hormone raged, but it's _hot_.  
Really, really.

Carl hit the nail, but in my unfocussed state the rod jolts out of my grasp. "_Ack_! Sorry."

He looks at me. I think he apologises, but I'm too busy wanting to die, rushing to retrieve the rod like an idiot. But I can see him still looking at me, so I dare to glance back at him, thinking maybe he wants something, only for him to suddenly avert his eyes, too.

"Here," I mumble, pressing the rod to the ground and gesturing him to try again, and once the rods are finished, I ask, "Do, uh, do you want me to get the wheels?"

Carl nods, and I figure that his cheeks are only darkening because of the hot day. We use the twine to tie the wheels on either end of each rod, using a large heavy one on one end and a small light one on the other. Carl says it'll make it move, saying that the uneven weight'll keep it swaying for a little while like a live load, or some phrase like that at least. I'm sceptical. But I help slot the rods in while he threads the twine through the holes he'd punctured in the middle, and then we tie the rods so that they'll stay, finally attaching the final touches by tying scrap metal and tin cans to the wheels to make the noise. I step back to view our handiwork, folding my arms over my stomach, squinting. Carl pulls back the wheels and holds them there.

"God, I hope this works," he mutters under his breath, exchanging a glance with me, and then, he lets go. They spring into action, clanging and jangling and swaying back and forth. A sudden rush of proudness rolls through me, glad that we've made it work, impressed that Carl was lateral and practical enough to think of it.

"Brain box," I mock. Of course I'm not going to tell him what I really think. He grins like he knows it anyway. But I'm pretty sure he's just proud of our work too. After a while the contraption begins to slow, until it eventually stops moving all together. "How are we gonna make it so that it keeps moving?" I ask, wiping sweat from my brow. "The walkers'll lose interest if it stops."

Carl thinks carefully. "If we put it close enough to the fence – so that the walkers can nudge it with the ends of their fingers, it should keep moving."

"Shall we do it now?" I ask, gesturing to the fence.

"I'm not sure we're suppose to get that close without someone with us."

"The Fence Cleaners are there," I say truthfully. "They'd be like supervisors. And it'll only take us a minute. We just have to put it over there."

This tempts Carl, I can tell. I mean, we're both fully capable of doing this without trouble. But Carl's respect for his father's wishes, however overprotective they are, win the conflict in his mind and he shakes his head. "We shouldn't."

I relent, respecting his wishes, too. "Okay, man."

* * *

**Notes**

Thanks to **Guest **for the Glock custom kit help x

* * *

_Rainbow Mika_

"You know that _big, blank, boring _wall over there by the parking-lot?" Carol asks us all.

We're out in the courtyard. Me, Pat, Mika, Lizzie, Molly, Luke, and the rest of the kids. Except Carl, of course. Carol left a note on the library doors: _'Meet me in the courtyard. __M__ake sure you're __all__ wea__r__ing old clothes.__'_ –"All we _have _is old clothes," Luke remarked while we all stared at the note. Carol arrived late, lugging a big cardboard box.

"The side of A-Block?" Lizzie asks.

"It has bullet holes," Luke says. Carol nods to both of them.

"Why are there bullet holes? Was it from when this place was a real prison?" Molly asks.

"No," Carol says, "it's from the attack 'bout half a year ago."

"With the Governor?" It isn't often for me to speak up in Story Time. But it kind of just slipped out.

"Yeah," Carol nods.

It's somewhat of a legendary story among those of us who weren't there. There are only a handful of people here now who'd witnessed the attack – fought it. Carl, Carol, Rick, Daryl, Glenn, Maggie, Hershel, Beth, Michonne, oh, and Judith, I guess. They won the battle, then later allowed the innocent and only left alive including Karen, Tyreese and Sasha from the enemy's side to come live here. When Carl explained it, telling about the death and the manipulation and the terror the Governor caused, I couldn't help but be impressed by it all, thinking of the story like it's an old wives tale rather than history, even though nothing on Carl's expression told me the Governor was a man to be taken lightly.

Carol asks Patrick to carry the box, and we all head over to the parking-lot next to A-Block. The Jeep and yellow/grey bus are parked neatly along the fence, and the ammo bins're lined up beside them. A run got back yesterday. The Jeep's still covered in walker entrails. It's Patrick who speaks first: "Ma'am, can I put this down now?"

"Yes, Patrick," Carol says. And she motions him to open it, too. When he does he gasps. I can't resist as I rush forward with the others to get a look. The box is filled with chalk crayons of all colours. Along with everyone else, my eyes swallow up the colours with a vengeance. Living in a prison for so long meant we're rarely granted such visual diversity, apart from Michonne's rainbow cat. So, to put it bluntly, we miss colour. Like,_ really,_ really. The sight we're staring at is nothing short of mesmerising. _Is it possible for eyes to experience climax? Or, no, I should probably call it 'ne plus ultra' or something. __**Yeah, less crude. No need to start mildly sexualising colour, Oliver.**_

"We're drawing, aren't we?" I ask. "On the wall."

Carl nods, grinning, "Go head and dig in."

"What do we draw?" Mika asks, taking a yellow chalk and advancing on the wall as if it's an animal of prey.

"Anything you want," Carol says, grabbing a handful of different chalk colours for herself.

I take a red one and a green one. Patrick a purple.

"Draw something that makes you smile," the Peletier adds.

So we go to work on the wall like rabid animals. It's brilliant. Patrick draws what's suppose to be a lego character, the idiot. Mika draws the sun with a smiley face. Molly draws a flower and Luke draws the stalk, both of them working in together like always. Lizzie draws what we all think is her mother, but she insists it isn't, and that it's a walker she'd seen on the fence. We all just sort of laugh it off to avoid awkwardness, leaving her to it.

It's while I'm trying my best to draw (a very poor) drama symbol. The one with the two drama masks; one laughing and the other crying. It's terrible, but it makes me smile so I know I'm doing what Carol wants. Anyway, it's as I'm drawing the ribbon hanging off of one of the masks that Carl strolls up from the vegetable garden after chores. I'd spotted him earlier, down with Hershel and his father tending to the pigs. Violet, the eldest female, gave birth to six healthy piglets last night and the three've been working relentlessly to take care of them ever since.

I get butterflies. I hate to admit it. But I do. Like I always do when Carl makes an appearance around me. I try to ignore it, nodding to him. He's about to go inside but when he sees me he stops. Patrick follows my gaze, waving him over. Carl hesitates, not entirely wanting to involve himself with Story Time like usual, but he follows out his change of mind and greets us.

"Hey," he says, dodging Molly as she skips past to hers and Luke's flower.

"Hey, man," I smile, rolling a chalk in my hands, the green powder rubbing off on my fingers.

"What's with the drawings?" the teen Grimes asks, mocking us, but there's something else, too. _**Is**__** Carl Grimes... curious?**_

Sensing this, too, Carol glances at him from the rainbow she's drawing. "You wanna join?"

He frowns. "No."

Carol shrugs, as if to say, _"__Y__ou're missing out,"_ and Carl almost rolls his eyes at her, and even though he doesn't, Carol still chuckles as if he had, exchanging a challenging glare with him. It impresses me, their unspoken communication. It's mere facial expressions or small gestures that's all they need to talk to each other. Much like the rest of the original group who came here. They're so close knit. Like a family. Then it occurs to me that I understand it, too, Patrick as well, some of the kids who were listening also by how much they're smirking at them. _We're part of it, too? Part of the family?_

"I'm, uh." I push thoughts of family away, wanting to focus on drawing because drawing's a far less existential task to focus on. "I'm, gonna, keep drawing now."

Carl and Patrick talk while I do. But I can't get the damned drama symbol right. The chin looks too square and the ribbons look like weird little red leaves. I'm close to giving up, but then, just as I'm about to step away in defeat, a dark green flannel sleeve floats past my face, over my shoulder, white chalk in the fair extremity as it begins gently sketching the pigment over the wall.

It's Carl.

He's fixing my drawing.

He's stood behind me. I can hear his breathing. I can see his arm as it hovers next to my shoulder, and I hold my breath whenever it unintentionally brushes against me. I'd move, you know, because he's probably expecting me to. But I freeze. After a moment my body functions enough to let me glanced at him, my face too close to his, so I do withdraw, stepping out of his way to let him draw better. "Thanks," he whispers, or, maybe my ears aren't hearing the world right.

"I thought you didn't wanna draw," I say once I swallow the cat from my tongue, and he smirks, his eyes fixed on the wall, the cerulean orbs so bright and focussed that I wonder if I can bring myself to look away. But then _he_ looks at me, and I _d__o_ look away, my eyes dropping self-consciously.

"I didn't," he says. "But I couldn't keep watching you make it look like they were constipated." I laugh, giddy and clumsy. Patrick, too, less giddy and clumsy.

"Like you could do any better," I retort, and without saying anything Carl gestures his eyes to my drawing. I look, too.

"Whoa..."

I breathe it before I can stop myself, amazed. My drama symbol was brilliant now. I can see my green and red chalk underneath, scruffy and childish and oddly shaped, but then on top, his white chalk markings, echoing mine but in all the right places, making the drawing look like the real thing. The two contrasting faces stand out from the wall. One laughing; the deep, laugh lines under his cheeks and eyes. His mouth wide and curved and his brow arched hilariously. The other face is crying; sobbing, distraught, with tears rolling down his cheeks. I can hear them laughing and wailing in my mind at the same time.

"Like it?" Carl asks. Though, I'm so awestruck that it's Patrick who replies for me.

"Where'd you learn to draw like this?"

"Been here for a while." Carl shrugs, looking away from me to him. "Lots of paper and pencils and time. I got good, I guess."

"I'll say," Patrick says.

"That's great, Oliver," Carol says then, joined by a few exclaims of agreement from a few of the others.

"Wasn't me," I say, gesturing to Carl.

"You're great at drawing, Carl," Lizzie says. Carl becomes modest then, his smile stiffening coyly from all the compliments. He makes a noise of discomfort, running his palm up and over his head, ruffling his dark brown hair in a way that makes my stomach yank on my trachea. I feel a tug on my flannel shirt.

"Hm?" I glance around, startle. "_Nyuh. _Jesus, Mika!"

"_Gr__ah_!" Mika jumps.

Mika Samuels, who's long hair is blond and completion fair, is now covered with colour. Streaks of blue and yellow and green and orange cover her skin, patches of bright pink and red and turquoise and purple in her hair.

She's a powdery walking rainbow!

"Oh, Mika," Carol laughs, glancing between the rainbow she's drawn and the living rainbow in front of her. "You put my drawing to shame, that's for sure."

"I got a little carried away." When she claps, a blue and green cloud poofs up in front of her.

"You look like Michonne's cat sculpture," I laugh.

"I love this stuff!" Mika exclaims, clapping again, ensuing another cloud of colour. "I almost forgot about it."

I keep laughing, Patrick and the other's doing the same, marvelling at the brilliantly picturesque nine-year-old. Carl, like usual, isn't laughing. But I'm sure I see him fighting the small smile pulling at his lips.

"Let's get you cleaned up."

* * *

"Oliver's sleeping here tonight."

"Okay," Rick says, looking kind of relieved by Carl's hospitality. "But be warned, Oliver, our clock goes off at six AM."

"Yeah," I smile, "Carl said."

"Okay," Rick nods and lets a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. "Jus' don't be late for chores in the morning, either o' you."

"Night, Dad."

"And don't stay up too late reading comic books," Rick adds, smiling, and I realise he's _really_ happy about this. I suppose it isn't often he's able to act like a stereotypical parent. Still, Carl sighs, clearly not as thrilled. I'm just sort of watching them over my comic, a mixture of amused and awkward and fascinated.

"_Night,_ Dad," Carl repeats, sounding more irritated this time.

Rick lets out a small chuckle. "Alright. Have a good sleep-over."

Both Carl and I stare at him. Neither of us even considered calling it that. Though, I'm gracious enough not to scowl at the man like Carl. Rick takes the hint, smirking, propping Judith up on his side and turning out the door, pulling the curtain over. I laugh when he's out of ear-shot.

"_Sleep over?_"

Carl glares. "Keep calling it that and I'll make you sleep on the floor."

I scoff, "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the cell block."

He doesn't reply. Simply grabs the comic we were reading before and slumps on to his bed. My back is against the wall, so he slings his legs over my lap, which I initially am more shocked by than I let on, but he's smiling, so I relax and keep reading. _**Just, don't move. Okay? Like, at all. Just, think of soccer, and walkers. **_So we sit and read. It's nice. It might not seem all that much, but simply sitting with a friend and doing something both of us enjoy that requires no effort. That's gold to us.

I don't realised when I begin to tire, and I only do when Carl suddenly holds his comic book in front of my face, but it's at an odd angle. _Why? Why is Aquaman up-side down?_ I finally realise I'm led across the bed now. Facing up, legs bent and knees aimed top-bunk-ward, my head beside what I realise is Carl's pelvis. Aquaman shakes, and I startle, my hands jerk up, and I accidentally smack Carl on the leg, too close, because Carl gasps and flinches, taking a moment to wipe the look of terrified relief from his expression. "You almost hit me in the nuts!"

"Sorry." I rub my eyes, groaning tiredly. Yawning. "What's wrong?"

Carl shakes his comic in front of me again. "Him."

"Who?" I grumble.

"Aquaman," Carl says, "he's a dweeb."

I roll my head back to grin at him, the top of my head pressing against his thigh, seeing him the wrong way up and frowning down at me. "You only just realise that?"

"_No_," he says, taking back the comic. "It's just – I mean look. He's right there, trying to make peace, but he could just get that shark to maul the bad guy and it'd be over." It's an amusing and rare sight to see Carl geek-out like this over his comics, riding the train into fanboyism. I'm totally on board.

"That's what makes it a story," I say, sitting up. I can feel the cow lick on the back of my head, so I hide it under my beanie. "You know? Because the comic would be –like– two pages long if they defeated the bad guy straight away."

Carl's eyes roll. I wonder if watching anything else in the world is more enthralling to witness. Witnessing Carl roll his eyes is like running a flower petal over your lip. Or looking over a still lake early in the morning. Or brushing your fingers through dewy clovers. Or listening to the _clisp _of a can open.

"It'd save a lot more lives," Carl says... glum. "He could do it. Quick and easy, and everything would be over."

I hold his gaze, thinking of all the other times in Carl's life in which that scenario would've been so much better. Because Carl's resentment towards Aquaman seems deeper than the stupid shark, as if it's aimed at something that'd happened before. Like a lot of things in his life could have gone a lot differently had things been done straight away. But of course, I don't know enough to say anything, so I make another joke about how lame Aquaman is, and Carl smirks, and so we stay up a later than we should, talking about ridiculous things that I won't even remember in the morning, muttering to one another from the bunk beds. I don't even remember ending the conversation, eventually, we just fall asleep.

* * *

Can I Go With You?

It's late, and quiet, and still. So it's the perfect time for my lungs to remember that they don't work properly; seizing and trying to push and pull air in and out of me faster and more desperately than I even need it. It's not severe. No matter how bad it sounds. So I sit up in my cot, reaching for my inhaler on my bedside table. Patrick snores above me, his arm hanging lazily beside my head, and against his pale, olive skin I can just make out the dark thread of his bracelet. Penelope made it for him a few weeks before the Turn. She made me one, too, but I broke it ages ago.

I bring the plastic to my mouth, pushing the cold metal cartridge, inhaling. But no Ventolin comes out. The infirmary has more inhalers though. So, sighing as best my lungs'll allow, I get out of bed, blindly searching for and slipping on a flannel shirt over my T-shirt and then stuffing my socked feet into a pair of sneakers that I'm fairly sure are mine, but could just as easily be Patrick's.

As quietly as I can, I tip toe out of D-block. I'm not being extremely careful. I sneak out a lot anyway, usually to go to the library, sometimes to the tombs that I know are clear. So, as to be expected, I get caught occasionally, but very, very rarely. This time, I get as far as the corridors, a few yards away from the exit before somebody sees me.

"_Muh_!"

Lizzie, and I almost walk right into her it's so dark. Plus, I can hardly breathe, so that doesn't help. Though, I do notice her hide something behind her back. _Maybe I__'ve__ caught her instead?_

"Oliver."

"Lizzie, what're you doing up?"

She chews her lip. "Nothing. Uh, no, bathroom."

"The bathroom's back in the common room," I frown.

"I was using another bathroom."

"You just came from outside..."

"No I didn't."

I frown. "You're a terrible liar."

Lizzie huffs, "Why are _you _up so late?" she asks curtly. By now, Lizzie and I are pretty good friends, and so we treat each other sort of like siblings, bickering occasionally, but respecting/challenging each other all the same.

So I cross my arms, trying not to wheeze. "Because."

"Because what?"

I kneel down to her. "I'll tell you, if you tell me what you were doing. Deal?"

Lizzie narrows her eyes. Then rolls them so dramatically that it looks painful. "_Fiiine._" Pause. "Well, you gotta go first."

"Why?"

"Because you thought of it."

I sigh, "_Fiiine._"

She giggles.

"Gimmie your hand."

She does, taking a moment to move whatever she's hiding to her left hand, and when I try to peer over her shoulder at it she jolts back. "Don't look at it!"

"I won't," I relent, patting my chest. "Feel," I say, and she reaches curiously, so, carefully, I press her palm to my sternum, taking the deepest breath I can. "Feel that? It's my lungs."

"Why's it doing that?" she asks worriedly, feeling my organ juttering through my ribcage, and I could feel it worse in my wind pipe. "It feels like you've got Daryl's motorbike stuck in there."

I laugh, coughing when it asks too much from my poor respiratory system. "Asthma. That's why I'm heading out – gotta get another puffer." _**Puffer? You haven't called it that since you were six.**_ Lizzie nods, taking her hand back. "Okay, so you gonna tell me what you're doing?"

She hesitates.

"_Because..._ if you don't, then I'll have to ask _Ryan_. I'm not sure he'll want his daughter out here at night all on her own."

Lizzie almost growls at me. "I'm not on my own. I-I _wasn't,_ I mean."

I frown, "You were outside with someone?"

She doesn't answer, just looks like she kind of really wants to but can't.

"Molly and Luke? You're not supposed to leave the cell blocks at night. You're too little. Even with your friends." I know I'm the biggest hypocrite saying all this. But I've never been in the _Big Brother _role. It's fun. I see why Pat finds tormenting me so much fun.

Lizzie nods. "I know. But I'm okay. You should go find an inhaler."

I purse my lips and nod, because my breathing's getting worse. "Yeah. Go back to your cell. Night."

"Night," she smiles, waiting for me to walk around her before skipping off to the cell block, the object that I'm pretty sure is just a shoe box or something similar now hidden in front of her. It looks harmless, so I don't ask. It's me who has the massive book stash under his bed anyway.

There are two ways to get to the infirmary. The first way –the damned cold way– is to take a long walk across the courtyard into the second main building. All you can do is hope that you won't freeze your balls off in the process when you take this way. The second way –the slightly less ball-freezing way– is to go directly left once you get out of D-Block. It'll take you through the tombs, past the boiler room, through C-Block, then into the second main building where the infirmary is, but due to the fact that it'll be going through a cell block means that you'll run the risk of waking the whole building if you're too loud.

But I really don't want my balls to freeze.

The tombs're creepy, there's no denying it. I've heard the horror stories about down here from the rumours. How the Governor sent his army in here to hunt out the survivors. There was something else about a guy who got ripped apart to save Carol, T-Dog or something similar, I'm sure, because T-Dog isn't really the easiest name to forget. Also a guy called Andrew, and another guy called Axel, who were both prisoners here and had waited from the beginning, or, something. Now that I thinking about it I don't think they died in the tombs, or, maybe they did, I can't remember. Also, how Judith was born in the boiler room, but all I know about that is that she was born in there and that Judith's and Carl's mother, Lori, didn't survive. Nothing else. When Luke asked in story time Carol said that it was just the sort of story that didn't need to be told anymore.

I get to the gate, making out the big, worn, black _'C Block'_ beside the door, placing my palm against the bars to make sure it's unlocked. It is, and it gives a little click as I reach inside and pull up the handle, pressing my lips together as if it'll help keep it quiet. It must take a good minute to open it slowly enough for it not to squeak, and by then my breathing's making more noise. But I edge into C-Block, so incredibly glad that for some annoying reason the gate closes in complete silence in that stupid prison door way that doesn't make any sense.

I can hear everyone asleep, snoring or shuffling, and so I creep through, staggering slightly because the whole _not being able to breath _thing really isn't very fun anymore. I feel the ache in the back of my throat. I try not to give in to it. But I can't. So I cough.

Godamn it.

Something rustles, and I panic, scrambled out of the cell block, panting from my stupid asthma and wincing as my wind pipe reprimands me for demanding so much from it. There's a wall just as I get into the corridors that lead through the second main building. Just a normal wall, but it looks so steady and grounding, and so I need to lean on it, to catch my breath, to stop the stupid_asthmaing_ thing that really, _really _isn't any fun anymore. I'm gasping, doubling over, hating my lungs. I wouldn't even make it to the infirmary like this.

"Oliver?"

I'd scream if my damned lungs would allow it. It's Carl. In his pyjamas and looking fairly pissed off, with a brilliant-looking cow lick on the side of his head. But then he sees what's wrong with me and his expression drops, rushing over and taking my shoulder, pulling me against my lung's will to the infirmary.

"Here. Sit."

I do as told, haggardly climbing on to the hospital bed that's more just a metal table, leaning forward to try to breathe a little better. "Sorry, I'm... fine... I just... need Ventolin."

"Which one's Ventolin?" Carl asks, his eyes shifting over my form. I could see the little glisten of moon from the window reflecting in them.

"Blue... blue one." I point tiredly. "In one of those cupboards."

He grabs a spare torch he finds on the counter beside me, switching it on, then raking through the cupboards where I'm pointing._He's making too much noise. __**It's okay. Try not to worry.**_ On the road I'd learnt to be as silent as possible, especially being alone, and even in the daytime making excessive noise is threatening to me.

"Got it," Carl mumbles, grabbing the blue plastic, quickly coming over and lifting his hand as if he means to administer it himself. But he realised what he's doing and hands it to me instead. "Um... Here."

I take the medication, holding my breath, my lungs full of Ventolin, feeling it work its magic in my capillaries and wind pipe, softening the tightened muscles, allowing me to let the breath out easily. I take another puff for good measure. Carl's watching me, his temples bulging when he clamps his jaw. I resist the urge to tell him to stop looking at me like that. As an asthmatic, whenever someone watches me use my inhaler, however concerned or sympathetic (or physically attractive) they may be is always immensely irritating, but, well, it _i__s_ him... so, it isn't _as _bad.

"So, _why _are you sneaking around C-Block in the middle of the night?"

I raise the inhaler. "Had to get another one. Ran out."

"And you thought you'd just cough as loudly as you could just as you passed my cell?"

"I didn't _mean _to."

He tries to hold his lips and face still, dark shadows casting across his face as he moves the torch in his hand, careful not to shine it in my eyes, but I see him smile.

"I wasn't gonna go the other way," I say before the pause gets too long, trying not to notice how his freckles jump out at me from the torch light. "It's so cold I would've frozen my balls off, and believe it or not, I actually value functioning reproductive organs. I might need them one day."

His smile grew, with a nicely added laugh to it, too. But then, suddenly, his expression drops, and he stares at me, his mouth falling open and mumbling something that falls apart in his mouth.

"Carl?"

He's pointing. . . "Spider. On your-"

"Where?!"

I swat at myself, frantically, finally taking a glance at my shoulder and hoping it's gone. But my pair of eyes meet the arachnid's eight, so close it looks like it's the size of my fucking face.

"_Fu__uuuu__ck_!"

I stumble off of the table, clawing at my shoulder, flinging my inhaler across the room.

"Get it off!"

Carl's laughing, and then I freeze, in that _nononononononono! _kind of way, jerking involuntarily. So he grabs my arms, holding me still. Then, with one flick of his index finger, the fat-bodied brown spider rockets across the infirmary. Carl follows it with the light of his torch, and it scrambled on its back, eight legs flailing, until it rights itself and scurries across the room, disappearing under the sink.

I physically shiver. "I hate spiders." Carl laughs, watching me, and I grimace like I'm in pain, shivering again. "Gimme a walker any day."

"Really?" he asks, retrieving my inhaler for me.

My cheeks blush so ridiculously that I can't even look at him. "_No,_" I relent truthfully, almost snatching my medication back. "But I don't like spiders. At all."

"Can tell." He's doing this silent laughing thing, and it takes a lot of self-control not to punch him.

"Shut up. They're creepy – their _legs..._ and, they're eyes are so... _creepy._"

He hums. "You must've picked it up on that wall earlier, you've got, um, a few cobwebs."

"Agh." I wipe them away, shivering again in repulse. "Fucking _hate_ spiders."

Carl smirks, then suppress it because of course he's Carl Grimes and suppressing smiles is the equivalent of his college major. "I was thinking I'd go check on Violet and her piglets."

I nod, "How are they?"

Carl grins again, unable to help it. I smile, too. There are three things that are most important to Carl Grimes. His comics, his sister, and those pigs. Is it bad I'm kind of sort of maybe a little jealous? I mean, only a little, sort of.

"She's not so protective of'm anymore. I hold'm all the time now." God, that accidental Southern drawl again.

"Can, um... Can I come with you?"

"Yeah, c'mon."

Carl flips off his torch before we get outside, avoiding attention from the walkers and people on guard. He says he's been to check on them almost every night since they were born a few weeks ago, and nobody's told him not to yet. When I ask if they'd mind me going with him too he says they have no reason to.

My shoulders are hunched. I step carefully over the earth and gravel, not wanting to make any sound or disturb anything. Even the grass as I walked over it; I leave as little tracks as I can. Also, it's freezing. _B__all freezing. _But the growling's worse. We can hear it. And it's so loud. I mean, it always is. But at night –the world that extra bit quieter, it's almost deafening. It puts me on edge even more.

"You okay?"

I'm hugging myself, both from the cold and from the fear. "Sorry. It's... I'm..."

"It's okay," he says casually, opening the paddock enclosures to let us go through. "Useful. You know, to stay on your toes."

I follow him through, and Carl picks at the fence post once it's closed, and he goes over to the other side, looking over Flame's empty paddock. He's worried about both Michonne and Flame out there even if he won't say so.

"I saw Charlie sleep walking. A few weeks ago." Conversations. I've never been good at starting them. But I'm more comfortable around Carl than anyone here bar my brother, so I just say the first thing that comes to mind. It only comes to might because of the walkers, seeing as I thought he was one.

"Yeah, apparently he does it a lot."

I purse my lips. "Thought he was a walker. Thought I was gonna have to put him down."

Carl watches me. "Would you? If he was?"

I nod. "I just don't like how easy it was to be okay with it." Carl didn't say anything, so I kept talking. . . "I guess, adjusting to living here's a little tough. It's so different from out there. Sometimes I'll wake up still thinking that the only goal I've got is to live through the day. But, then I open my eyes and see that I'm in a prison."

Carl nods, and something tells me that he totally understands. An almost inaudible, "Yeah," leaves him as he walks over to Violet and pats her side. Adjusting to the Prison lifestyle was tough for him, too. Especially after the new people coming from Berrywood, or, something. But anyway, it doesn't matter that he's been living here for over half a year. Carl's still a survivor, in his head. Just like me. And we will be for the rest of our lives. Adjusting and adapting and blending as best as we can to our surroundings. Like a chameleon changing colour to camouflage – avoiding attention or danger. Surviving. But on the inside it's the same, the hidden reptile's still just fragile flesh and bone and nervous system if you just look past the outer layer.

That's us.  
Carl and I are chameleons.

One of the piglets brave enough bites at my sneaker, and I laugh at it, not really sure if I'm more afraid or completely amused by it. I step back, smearing mud on my jeans, and the piglet follows me, stepping on the end of my foot and staring up at me, sniffing expectantly.

"Yeah," Carl says, "she's the most friendly."

"You can tell them apart?" I ask, grunting a little, pinning my back against the fence.

Carl shrugs, and then he seems to remember he's talking to the kid that talks to himself, so he nods more surely, embarrassed. "Yeah. I can."

Despite hating _Playing Farmer, _which he's never admitted aloud, he still loves the animals, as much as any other person loves their friends. I'm sure he has names for them all in his head, but on the outside, Violent's the only name he ever utters, and that's only occasionally when he's relaxed and comfortable enough.

"That's cool," I say truthfully.

He chews his lip, more flattered than he wants to be, picking the piglet up. He smiles, hoisting her on his chest, the baby giving out an exited squeal into his front.

Then he thrusts her into my arms.

"W-what're you doing?" I gasp, fumbling awkwardly as the animal wriggles frantically in my grip, rubbing mud up my arm and cheek.

"Just stand still and let her relax on you. Like holding Judith."

"Yeah, if Judy had a snub nose and a tail," I grunt sarcastically, though, after a moment the piglet settles, and – "Alright... she_is_pretty cool."

Carl chuckles, "She has her mom's temperm–"

_CLANG.  
__JANGLE!  
__CLANG._

We both startle, spinning around. Even over the growling of the walkers, the fencing's louder. For a terrible moment we watch the fence dip forward, it hits the secondary fencing. My hairs stand on end, adrenaline rushing, and I rush to put down the piglet. Carl scrambles over to me, and we stare at the fence, backing away from it even though it's pretty far away. But then it releases, the fence, rising back up and staying there when its buoyancy is stronger than the walker's weight, enough to hold. For now. Carl and I are panting, coming down from our terror, managing to relax our expressions and catch up with our hammering heartbeats.

But then, I realise. . .  
Carl's taken my hand. Or, maybe I've taken Carl's hand.

He hasn't noticed yet, still staring at the fence, stood in the mud. Then, even when he does notice; his gaze falling to our tangled extremities, he doesn't let go. Instead he pulls me to follow him out of the paddock, as if it's just my sleeve he's holding, wanting for us to leave, or maybe pretending that it really is only my sleeve. But it's completely forgiveable because of _the dark _and_spiders _and_angry fence walkers._

But, I suppose that to hold somebody's hand is kind of like proving that we're still okay, still breathing, and that the other person we're holding on to is just like living, conscious, proof of that.

So we walk back to the Prison, hand in hand, pretending not to notice, and it wouldn't be anything... mostly anything... if one of us would just let go. If we don't stand here by the entrance of C-Block, holding that little bit of each other even after the frightening part's over.

I should to say something. Fuck. I know I should say something. But I can't think of it. The something. It's always that when I need my voice most it fails me worst. I should thank him. _**For what? The inhaler? The spider? The piglets? **__For t__he everything that__I don't know__ how to say thank __you__ for._ But neither of us say anything, in a way that makes it clear that saying nothing is the rule for the rest of tonight. That this is an act without commentary, and upon its end it might not have ever even happened. So that's how it ends. He simply pulls his hand out of mine and disappears into the cell block corridor.

The door snaps shut behind him, and I jump, bringing my arms up around myself and wincing as the noise shakes deep into my bones. I can feel it. In the pit of my stomach. That feeling that I can't decide is good or bad. It feels awful, but at the same time... it feels... unfulfilled, maybe? Unsatisfied?

Confused.

I push it away, pulling at my beanie, quickly hurrying across the courtyard because I can't go through the cell block and tombs this time, obviously. No matter how cold I am. D-Block's still asleep, and one protective glance into Mika's and Lizzie's cell confirms that the eldest Samuel sister's curled up with her little sister now, their father on the bunk under them snoring away.

I kick off whoever's shoes I'm wearing, then pull off my flannel shirt, tossing it on the floor and intending to leave it scattered there like that. But I can't. So I put it away neatly, which only seems to annoy me more. I can't relax when I get back into bed, scowling into my pillow, trying to push away all of the feelings that I'm not supposed to be feeling. _**B**__**ury the**__**m, Oliver**__**. **__**I**__**t**__**'**__**s stupid to think and fee**__**l**__** th**__**is**__** way. Carl**__**'**__**s **__**your**__** friend. **__**Your**__** best friend. **__**You**__** like it like that.**__ Plus, he d__oes__n't feel things like tha__t,__ and if he d__oes__ then he sure as Hell d__oes__n't think or feel them about me. __**Maybe he d**__**oes**__** for someone else?**__ Beth most likely. She__'__s pretty, friendly, good with looking after Judith. He__ck__, she__'__s a girl. __**Stop sulking. You don't need to**__** do this to **__**your**__**self after everything**__**you've**__** been through, **__**Oliver**__**. A boy, no matter how mysterious or handsome or peculiar or enticing or. . . **__**Nevermind! **__**A boy **__**i**__**sn't going to supplant everything that**__**you**__**'**__**ve**_ _**been through**__**. So g**__**et**__** over **__**your**__**self. **__**Don't be**__** bitter at a good friend just because she**__**'**__**s a pretty girl. **__**B**__**eth**__**'**__**s **__**your**__** friend, Carl**__**'s your**__** friend, and nothing need**__**s**__** to be anymore complicated than that.**_

So I ignore it, and eventually, I finally fall asleep. Then, the next morning I go and do chores with Carol while Patrick has a lie-in. I get on with it, not thinking of Carl in that way and pretending that the night before hadn't happened.

* * *

**Notes**

I know lots about asthma :)

That holding hands thing was totally inspired from Fangirl. Read it. Seriously! If you have already, then basically, Cath is legitimately my Spirit Animal, because I just relate to her infinitely. She is me. Ugh. That book is the story of my life. Minus the twin thing. (Carl is obviously Baz and Oliver is obviously Simon, I mean, he even coincidentally has a best friend called Penelope!) XD Okay, I'm done now.

* * *

Crushing

**Carl's POV**

_He's with me.  
__That strange, mysterious boy._

_His brown and gold oracles bore into my blue. His hold around me is secure and gentle. His body is against every part of me. His heat is felt intoxicating. And all I feel is alive._

_Skin on skin.  
__Heart to heart.  
__Mind in mind.  
__Soul with soul._

_And we don't stop.  
_

_He's kissing me...  
__Touching me..._

" _Oliver. "_

_But footsteps invade our forbidden Nirvana and the sudden swarm of fear and dread is poison._

* * *

My eyes snap open, and I'm gripping my pillow with white, bloodless fingers. Cold sweat runs down my face and soaks my pyjamas. I'm panting and shaking and panicking, aware of my indignity, forcing the images and desires out of my mind. But the footsteps. They aren't going away. I swivel onto my front before my father walks in, and my eyes shut on themselves, holding my breath. He knocks on the bars, and I make a decent attempt to fake rousing, groaning at him in dismay towards it.

"C'mon," Dad whispers, softly, reassuringly, "chores."

He goes and waits in the common room, and I sit up, rubbing my eyes and running my fingers through my hair, sweat soaking my scalp. The images slip back into my mind again and my gut wrings itself out, so I push it away. I push _him _away. I'm not supposed to feel this way. I'm not suppose to think like this. Nobody else does. There's something wrong with me. It's not normal. It's wrong. . . But then why did it feel so right? Why did the dream feel so peaceful? So at home? So good?

I shake my head, grimacing, so confused by my thoughts that I'm close to crying. My spine folds forward. Hands bawl to fists in my hair, pulling furiously, punishing myself, silently begging myself to stop thinking like this – feeling like this.

It hurts.  
So bad.

Lying and forcing myself to pretend. It's torture. For months it's only been getting worse. In the last week I've woken up in the same state almost everyday. The _dreams_? They're remorseless, unrelenting. Each similar but with something subtly unique about it every time. Sometimes the dreams are mashed and cluttered with detail, and other times they're simple and with only a few words or snippets that I'm aware of. And _he_ is always there. Always.

But...  
I've never wanted him to go away...  
Not ever.

I'm trying so hard to stop it. To stop it all. To change myself. Because I don't want to be this. I don't want to be someone who either kills boys or dreams of kissing them. It's too confusing. Too muddled. Too infuriating. And it's _his_ fault. It all started ever since I saw him come in through those gates. Ever since his golden flecked oracles met my blue, and it only got worse when, later, he showed me his smile, with that over-bitten, crooked curve in it that I can't seem to get enough of.

"Carl, you ready?"

I startle, letting go of my hair, staring wide eyed at the curtain over my door. "Y-yeah! I'l-I'll be there in a minute."

"Hurry up."

"Can you give me a few," I ask casually, wiping another stream of tears.

There's a pause. "I'll see you down there. Don't take to long."

I listen to him leave, hurting all over. God. All of it. It's making me so depressed. It's crushing me. But, I guess that's why they call it a crush, huh? But I have to ignore it. I have to pretend nothing's wrong or hurting me. I'm good at that. Ever since Mom died I've become a master at disguising my emotions. Even Dad. He has no idea what's going on in my head. Heck, not even I do. So I dress, luckily distraught and miserable enough that it's easy to conceal myself in my clothes, and so, when my eyes are dry and my breathing is settled, I go play Farmer.

_Be what I__'__m expected to be,_ I tell myself over and over, _Be __**who**__ I'm expected to be._

Farmer Carl like Farmer Rick.

_No more kids stuff._

* * *

I've finished chores.

He's just started.

He's crouching.

I'm watching.

He's pouring a jug with the water from the bins.

I'm still watching him.

Then he's climbed up onto the decking, pouring drinks for whoever wants them. But I'm not watching him anymore because I realise Patrick said something to me. I nod like I know what he's talking about, and he nods back because it works, only, it doesn't, because he suddenly drops a handful of string beans onto my plate because I realise that'd been what I'd agreed to._Mother fuck._ I eat them because I have to now, resisting the urge to gag, sat behind the kitchen counter. I'm not supposed to sit here. I'm supposed to eat with everyone else at the benches. But it's not an official rule made by the Council or anything and nobody tells me not to. Also, the only people I sit with are the people from my original group or Patrick and Oliver. None of my original group're here yet. Maggie's on guard. Dad's getting Judith. Carol's cooking. Daryl and Glenn're out on a run. Hershel's tending to Violet. Michonne's still out on her run looking for the Governor. Actually, Beth's over at a bench with Zach, but I felt weird butting in so I left them alone. Plus, the fact that Zach's always making jokes about the crush I used to have on Beth, along with hounding me about playing soccer, drives me insane.

I'm picking dirt and weeds from my fingernails when he speaks to me: "Morning, man."

I look up. I'd been concentrating so hard on digging under my nails that I'm grimacing, and Oliver smirks, and my expression drops and I put my hand down in the string beans. "_Eugh..._" I wipe my hand on my leg, not looking at him. But I know he's leaning on the counter beside me, and I know I almost startle when his arm unintentionally touches my shoulder when he serves a plate to Jeffrey from D-Block, and I try hard not to think about the rushes of warm that run from Oliver's contact and shoot through my spine.

"Finished your Superman volume last night, I'll bring it back to your cell after chores."

I nod casually, "What did you think of it?"

"Awesome, as usual," he says like it was a dumb question, which it was really. Then he leans closer to me. Or, maybe he doesn't. Maybe I've just been looking at him too long. "But I was still kinda disappointed that Wolverine didn't run Superman a bath of liquid Kryptonite."

I laugh, suddenly, like a bolt of lightning hitting me right in the chest. "Can't believe you remember that."

He grins at the place Patrick's just handed him, and he hands it to Mika, and I realise too late that I'm staring, quickly looked at my food. Oliver grabs a plate and takes a seat on the stool beside me, beginning his own breakfast now that everyone's eating. Patrick comes over too, eating on my other side. "You look like you slept in a barn all night."

"Thanks, Patrick," I say tiredly. It was supposed to be sarcasm, but it didn't come out sounding like it.

"No," he says, grinning, "you just have straw in your hair. That's all."

Oliver chuckles, carefully pulling out the pieces of straw stuck in my fringe, dropping them over the counter. "You been getting Flame's stable ready?"

I nod, "Michonne'll be home soon." He smiles. Again, I have to ignore the butterflies. "Uh, Playing Farmer... it, uh, it gets pretty mucky sometimes."

Patrick chuckles, but Oliver watches me. I have this sneaking suspicion that he knows how much I hate _Playing Farmer_. I'm not sure how. I've never told him. He just... _knows__._ Sometimes it annoys me; how well he seems to know me. All those emotions and hidden irritations I try so hard disguising just doesn't seem to work with Oliver. Though, frankly, I'm just relieved that he can't_really_ read my mind – see the thoughts and images still whirring through my imagination. Otherwise... I don't know what he'd do.

That thought alone sends me back to eating in silence while Patrick and Oliver talk, mostly bickering. Oliver, I've come to realise, likes to live in a neat environment. Often the objects on his bedside table are places symmetrical –pens and papers and inhalers lined up, and his bed's always made. Patrick, on the other hand, doesn't put nearly as much care into his lifestyle. This causes a clash between the two when it comes to rooming, or, _celling_ together, you see? Usually it ends up with me helping Oliver tidy before he can stand sitting back and reading his comics or enjoying himself. Luckily, the brothers never really have any _bad_arguments. Their five-month separation was enough to prove how much they need each other.

"Come on, Pat. It's not hard to put away a pair of socks every now and then," Oliver grumbles, and Patrick says back, "No, it's not. But it's also easier to leave them on the floor for when I need them next," and Oliver almost growls when he replies with, "You're such a douche sometimes. I swear you do it just to annoy me," and Patrick doesn't even try to deny it, nodding and saying, "Yup. It's funny watching the vein in your temple _bulge,_" and then Oliver throws his whole head and torso backwards, flinging his hands up to the sky, and when all of him comes back down again he rather anticlimactically sighs the word, "Jerk," rather than screaming it like both Patrick and I expected.

Patrick's laughing. I just try not to smile, forking more duck and vegetables that don't consist of or touch anything involving string beans. I really hate string beans. Then Oliver elbows me in the ribcage.

"Ow!" I almost fall off of my stool. "Hey, I didn't do anything!"

"I can hear you laughing in my head."

There's a part of me that believes him. "You've lost it, Oliver."

"I lost it a long time ago, man."

* * *

"They brought someone back," Oliver tells me, noticing the stowaway inside the back of the truck that Daryl and Glenn had just driven into the parking-lot. I see him, too. He's a dirty-looking, roughed up, middle aged guy with a messy moustache that's growing in odd lengths from months without a razor. Slim, dark skin, tired-looking and he wears a ripped plaid jacket, a machete across his knees.

"Another stray."

Oliver frowns at me. "I was a _stray._"

"And look what happened."

He rolls his eyes, heading into the main building, catching a glimpse of the stranger as he spoke to my father, Glenn and Daryl before we disappeared through the doors.

I mean it. What I said. Look at what's happened. Oliver, the stray, who'd found the Prison the same way as that man. Oliver who I've developed... whatever this is, for. Oliver who's captivated me before I even know his surname. Still don't! Oliver who lives in my dreams and takes up my every thought and action. Oliver who sees through every wall I try so hard to put up against the whole world.

Oliver who's still my best friend.

_God, what've you done to me?_

* * *

My stomach growls just as Stanley Yelnats finished digging his first hole in the middle of the dessert, he's panting and sweating and sure that he's dying. It's Holes.

"Hungry?" Oliver asks, peering over the Ender's Game hard-back.

"No," I lie. I'm not really sure why. I guess because being hungry's like saying you don't like wearing itchy clothes. You just deal with it. Plus, I don't particularly want to be forced to socialise with that new guy, because I know, being my father's son, I'll be expected to.

Oliver slides off of the table –he'd been led across it. I'm slumped in the chair beside him. "Supper'll be ready by now," he says anyway, leaving his book open on the page he's on. He'd already helped make supper. Carol dismissed him earlier.

"I'm fine. We should wait until everyone else's done eating."

"Carl. The noises your stomach's been making for the past hour is making it impossible to concentrate. Come eat."

"I wanna read."

"You're hungry, man. We both are."

"I'm fine."

"Carl..." he moans. "Why are you being so freaking stubborn?"

"I'm not."

Oliver watches me. . . "It's because of that new guy, isn't it?"

Damn it.

Oliver bites his lip, and even though my head's aimed at my book, my eyes won't tear away from him, watching the blood under his teeth build where he's putting pressure, and then as it lingers, slowly spreading into the rest of his skin when he releases it. I look away. Blinking him out of my eyes.

"I'll make an excuse for you to leave so you won't have to say much to him."

I looked again, eyes wide, "Serious?"

He nods. "And if they don't take the bait... I'll... I'll fake an asthma attack and ask you to take me to the infirmary."

I stared at him in awe, still not getting up, though, not refusing either. That's when Oliver puts his hands in his pockets and sways on the spot.

"You know..." he sings, "I bet there'll be _corn_."

I close my book, exasperated.

He grins, and he's biting his lip again. "Lots o' corn."

I don't mean to stare when he puts on my accent, swallowing.

He stops smiling, serious now. "You don't have to pretend with me."

There. He did it again. That _seeing through my front _thing. It overwhelms me. It makes me angry. So I leave my book on the table and stand up, glaring at him as I lead the way through the corridors.

* * *

I don't have to talk too much to the man, who introduces himself as Bob Stookie. However I do have to sit through all of supper in the cafeteria, listening to the Council give a longer than necessary announcement, so –neglecting the fake asthma attack method, even Oliver has to stay. The Council say about the part of the prison that's recently been cleared. That it's been cleaned fully and was available to everyone now. Though, what everybody doesn't know is that Oliver and I have already been and had a look around there. The day we fixed the roof. The day we heard the radio. The day Oliver kissed my forehead.

I'm doing it again.

In the middle of the cafeteria surrounded by people, I'm thinking about those things I shouldn't be thinking about. I got butterflies. I found myself watching Oliver, who's been sat opposite me, and I'm wondering what it would be like to pull off that beanie and run my fingers through his hair. But I stop, forcing my focus back to the Council again. Until finally, we were allowed to leave.

Oliver and I go straight back to the library. I grab my book immediately.

"How's a book about a kid digging holes so interesting?"

"It's not just about him digging," I answer, frowning into the book. "There's this pair of shoes, and he gets arrested because they think he stole them. So he goes to jail, but it's not a jail, it's a dessert institution to build character. There's a load of other characters, and a mystery, and a load of plot twists and peaches and onions and a donkey called Mary and... uh, you don't care, do you?"

Oliver frowns. "Yes."

"You look bored."

"It's my _face,_ Grimes."

"Oh, right... _so_ sarcastic." That's what confuses me most about Oliver. Sometimes I can't tell if what he's saying to me is genuine or if he's just making a joke.

"How does it end?"

I shrug, "Haven't finished it. _You_ keep talking."

"Screw you. Sorry for tryina make conversation."

"Since when has _conversation_ been important to you?"

Oliver laughs. "Never. _I just like the sound of your voice_." Again with the sarcasm. I think.

That's why we like each other's company so much –not the sound of each other's voice by the way. I mean, not that I don't like the sound of Oliver's voice, or, well, whatever. What I mean is: we don't have to talk much or entertain each other to have a nice time. It's just nice... being.

So we carry on reading, the only noise interrupting the warm still library being the occasional turn of a page or a quiet chuckle or sigh from one of us, like two, stereotypical, old men reading the newspaper together. Right up until my dad comes to look for us. So I wave Oliver goodnight and Dad and I go back to C-Block. Before turning in, I say goodnight to Judith, kissing her forehead, letting her grip my thumb until she gets bored.

"Night," Dad says just as I'm about to leave.

"Night."

"I'm glad you've got friends like Oliver and Patrick."

He said it so suddenly and factually that it catches me off guard, so for a second I'm just nodding. "Me, too."

"You're doin' good, Carl. Wanted you to know that."

_Good enough to __have__ my gun back, __yet__? _I want to ask. But a short, "Thanks," is what I say, leaving without another word.

* * *

I can't sleep. I know what'll happen if I do. So I decide to read instead. Though it's as I grab for the novel I usually leave on my beside table that I realise I left it in the library. But I figure the walk'll do me good. Maybe tire me out. So I creep out of bed, dressing into jeans and boots, though leaving my pyjama top on. The cell block's quiet, but not silent, so it's easy enough to sneak out and edge the door closed again behind me.

I froze when I got to the library door. Somebody coughed. Though, then, I hear the spray of an inhaler, and I smile, so broadly I have to wait a minute to stop and settle. Then I sneak inside, creeping closer and closer to him. I could reach out and touch him, and I'm going to. I'm going to poke his neck and whisper something that I haven't thought of yet to scare him. Immature, I know, but for some reason I don't care. For some reason, just for a moment, all I want to be is a kid.

"If you're trying to sneak up on me, Carl, you might wanna stop breathing."

I startled so bad it's me who leaps three feet across the room, not him like I 'd intended. He laughs when my ass hits the floor. "Jesus, Oliver!" I gasp, panting and blushing and adrenaline fuelled. "How the hell?"

"_Ah,_ your face," Oliver doubles over laughing.

I stand up, scowling. "What're you even doing in here?"

He settles. Eventually. _Very _eventually. "Having a couple hours to myself."

This makes me curious, though, I don't say so. "Did you get my book? I left it earlier."

He nods, rummaging through the pile of books and notes he has on the table in front of him. "Here. I read a little - it's kinda good." I thumb at the spine when he hands it over. "I was sorting through books I've read and ones I wanna read next, but-"

"Wait," I interrupt, "you're gonna take them all back to your cell?"

". . . No. Not _all _of them."

I've seen Oliver take a lot more books into his cell than he takes back out. But I don't ever call him out on it. I'm grinning. "But what?" I ask, reminding him of the sentence I'd interrupted.

"Oh, yeah, but I've, uh. I've kinda given myself about a hundred paper-cuts skimming through all the pages."

I chuckle, "It's 'cause you've got soft hands." I only know because I remember then on my temples that day he kissed my forehead._Hekissedmyforeheadhekissedmyforeheadhekissedmyforehead! _Oliver smirks, examining his palms. "See?"

He looks past them to me, watching me take a seat on the table, propping my legs up on the side of his chair. Then he holds his hands out. I wonder if he's serious. But he doesn't pull away. So, hesitantly, I take them, holding each extremity in front of my kneecaps like they might break, then gripping them more surely. His hands are warm, and smooth and soft. A few small calluses mostly on his right hand from all the machete use.

"Yeah, uh, see?" I bring back focus, tracing the groove of his thumb with my pinkie, then touching the places on his fingertips that he's given himself the paper-cuts. I stop when Oliver shivers. Stare. He's only wearing his short-sleeve pyjama top and he isn't wearing shoes. He's cold. Yeah. Yeah. Cold. I remember I didn't finish my sentence. "Softer than mine."

Then I open the hand I'm using to touch him, showing him the dry, callused skin. All that farm work's to blame, or thank, I guess. I haven't given him his hands back. Nor does he pull them away. He just watches me curiously, tentatively... like he's trying to figure something out – like he's trying to figure _me_ out.

I'm about to let go, push the thoughts out of my mind for what has to be the thousandth time today. But Oliver leans forward, and at the same time he gently pushes the back of his wrists against my kneecaps. I'm looking at his mouth, watching it talk. . .

"This scar," he says, pointing at the heel of his left palm closest to his thumb. I look, see the thin, whine line across his skin. "I was at Penelope's. Cut it by accident. We were making salad for Independence Day a few weeks before the Turn."

I giggle my reply, like a silly, love-struck moron. "Dork."

He grins, and I think about how warm he is against my kneecaps. He'd been looking at his hand, and when he looks up we're close than he thought, and I look up at him, too, at the same time, so close that if I tipped forward I'd be able to touch out noses. I want him to. . . No, never mind.

I sit back, not smiling anymore.

"I bet if it was you it wouldn't've even made a scratch," Oliver says after a moment. "All those walls you've put up. Nothing gets through to hurt you, huh?"

Fuck. He did it again.

He just stares, and I stare back, and his eyes are burrowing into me, exploring parts of my mind that I suddenly want him to see – want him to know about.

"I..." I want to kiss him. Goddamn it, I want to kiss him so bad it hurts. In my mind, I grab him and we roll around with each other on the floor like rabid animals, tangling our everything in ways I haven't even been able to imagine, but in reality I'm turning my spine into rock to stop it from lurching forward, forcing myself not to say what I want him to know so desperately.

_I really like you. I like you like I like breathing. I like you like I like feeling the sun against my skin. I like you like I like corn._

"What?" I say instead, though my voice is shrill and hoarse, ready to burst with something I don't understand. But it's building inside me, that _thing_... like a bubble made of steel.

"Don't think I haven't noticed," he whispers. "_Playing Farmer. _I know it pisses you off and I know you only do it for your dad."

"What are you. . . ?" I think I'll finish. But that's the question. _What are you? What kind of __creature so mysterious and strange and intuitive __are you__ to have the power to do all of this to me? __What are you to so__ easily g__e__t into my head like th__is? How,__ just by being around me, __are you able to make me__ want to smile for days?_ But I can't say any of that. I can't say anything.

"Why don't you just tell him?" Oliver asks.

I have to swallow the back hole into my stomach, forcing it down and away like always. "He already knows."

He keeps looking at me, and I know he wants to ask why my father is so over protective, why he feels it so necessary to shield me like he does, what I've done to deserve it.

"It doesn't matter."

Oliver sighs, his hand twitching in mine slightly and by reflex I withdraw. He watches me, dropping his hands. . . "It does."

I'm staring at his hands, missing them. "It's fine, Oliver."

He nods, "Well, I'm here to talk to if you ever decide it's not. Or if you just want another pair of hands to play with."

I snap my eyes up to him, "I wasn't playing with them!"

"I was kidding, sap..." Then he grins, madly. "Did feel nice though."

I try to stop my expression from tensing or widening or contorting, unable to tell if he's kidding. I can't tell anything. I can't make sense of any of it. "I should get back," I say, helpless. I hate how I always say the opposite of what I want to say. "Are, uh..."_Focus._"Are you goin' back too?"

"No. Pat won't wake up until the morning. Nobody notices when I go."

"You've snuck out before?"

"Where'd you think all the bean bags came from?"

"I dunno," I say defensively. "Wait, so, you went and got them?"

He nods. "Found them in the wreck room we were in that day we found the music room. By the sewing machines. A load of these bean bags were in there so I just took them. Brought them back here."

"Alone? In the middle of the night?"

Oliver nods, not realising how peculiar this is. "Yeah, it wasn't difficult."

_Amazing. Amazing Oliver. Amazing Oliver and his amazing bean bags. _I have this ridiculous grin on my face and there's no way it's going away now.

"I had to do tougher stuff before Daryl and Michonne found me."

_Oh. Shit._

I hadn't considered that, or rather, overlooked it. "Must've been tough. Five months."

"It was the worst time of my life."

I've never been on my own. Never. Sure, I've snuck out and gotten myself into trouble more than once. But I've never had nowhere to go back to – no family to find again. I can't imagine how alone Oliver must've felt.

"But I'm here now," he says, and smiles, meaning it. "See you in the morning?"

I nod, bringing my thoughts back to focus. "Yeah. I've only gotta tend to Violet and the piglets. Dad and Hershel're gonna take over the garden so I should be back before you wake up. Come by before your chores and we'll read comics for a little while."

"Sounds good."

So I left the library, clutching Holes. But now all I can feel is the warmth of Oliver's hand, like a ghost lingering over my skin. Haunting my memory.

I try not to.  
But I like it.

* * *

Aesthetically Pleasing

Carl Grimes's been blessed with nice, handsome features. A slim form, budding tone in his muscles –if not still a little lanky. Long, brown hair that flops neatly-wildly in every direction. A curved, though, defined jaw. Full lips. Freckled, fair skin. And piercing blue eyes that're so bright and electrifying that they're almost intimidating. I'd called him _a__esthetically __p__leasing_, but he isn't that at all.

He's spellbinding.

Absolutely spellbinding. Usually, it takes a lot of concentration not to look like I'm completely swooning over him every time he makes eye contact with me. But, God. Those eyes. They're. . . They're–

"Oliver."

I startle, flinching at my name from the boy I most definitely am_ not _swooning over. "Huh?"

His eyes roll –those mesmerising eyes– and he says something. But, those eyes – "Oliver!"

Again, I startle. "They're blue!" _**Yes, because out of every other sane thing you could say you choose that!**_

"Goddamn it! Listen to me! What's up with you today? You're so distracted."

I shake my head. "Nothing. I'm just... you know, it's. Um, tired. _I'm_ tired." A mess. That was what I am. "Yeah."

"Story Time and servin' deer really that straining, huh?"

I scoff, "_No._" His left brow cocks. "I'm just tired, Carl."

"_Tired_ never means _tired,_" he says. "_T__ired _is always code for _bored,_ or _miserable,_ or _hating everything._"

"Your logic never ceases to amaze me," I say truthfully.

"Are you gonna answer me?"

"What was your question?" I ask.

"_You _were the one who asked!"

"Oh!" I suddenly remember what I'd said before. It's winter, and I left D-Block to come here to C-Block with only a short sleeve on, so I asked him if I could borrow a jacket. He'd asked which one, and he's still holding them out to me. "Um, these." A purple and blue flannel shirts and a denim jacket with faux on the collar. I pull them on. "Thanks."

"Got any ideas for something to do?"

I grin, nodding. "So I'm reading this book, but in it the characters had to use each other to make a sort of structure, thing. I wa-"

"Oliver, I'm not spending another day reading."

"No, no, you didn't let me finish."

He glares sceptically, letting out a very slow, "Okay," as he exhales.

"We should try it?"

"Try what?"

"The structure thingy they did in the story," I answer.

"How?"

I shrug, "Dunno. I guess how they did it..."

"How'd they do it?"

To be honest I'm surprised he's going along with it. I expected him to refuse. "Well," I say, "seeing as they were in a space academy with zero gravity I'm not sure it'll be possible to do it _exactly_ the same way."

"You're still reading Ender's Game?"

"Yup."

"You read so slow. I've read two books already since Holes."

I pull a sceptical face. "I swear you don't even read them. You just skim through pages." It's not true, I know. Carl reads at a normal pace. I, on the other hand, always overly savour a book, taking in every last detail until I can almost recite it.

Carl rolls his eyes. Watching this happen still does _weird _things to my stomach. "I tried looking for _Butterfly Lion_ in the library yesterday," he says, "couldn't find it. You still got it?"

"Um..." Butterfly Lion's still in my cell. Under my bed. With all the rest of the books that've mysteriously gone astray. They'll turn up, one day, once their captor finally gets the guts to let them go.

Carl grins, like he knows. "Exactly how many books _are_ in your cell?"

His eyebrows fly up when I can't bring myself to lie, because I'm stuttering. "Uh, um. J-just a few."_ChangethesubjectChangethesubjec__t__! "_Uh, come on, go find another chair and we can try this structure thing."

He seems too excited to be stubborn –which has to be a first. So, with a short sceptical glare, he stands up, wandering out into C-Block. I hear him grunt, and then a moment later he's lugging the borrowed chair from his father's cell. I grab his chair sat in the corner of the room, and we put both chairs against the walls closest to the door, one on either side. I climb up onto the chair on the right, motioning him to stand on the left. I'm tall enough that my head just presses against the ceiling. Carl's barely skims it being only a little shorter than me.

"Now?" he asks.

I'm unable to shake the grin from my face, stood on the chair, facing him as he does the same opposite. It's like we're getting ready to waltz or something. I have this nervous-excited-happy bubbly feeling in my stomach. Like I might've drank washing up liquid. I put my hands up, extending them towards him so that they make an arch over my head like one half of a lob-sided bridge. "Okay, you gotta take my hand. In the book there were –like– twenty characters doing it. So, we'll just have to make do with us. I'll be Ender and you'll be Petra." I don't know why he looks so shocked, it isn't a rare thing to see me so into something. Fanboying is my forte. But I don't ask, knowing that if I do he'll most likely back out of doing this, so I smile, and he lets me get carried away in my play. "I'll stay where I am, but you – you gotta lean over, so that I've gotta support you while you do."

"I've gotta read that book," he says nervously.

"You don't have to. If you don't want to."

He claps, determined. "No, I do."

I grin. "Then, uh, you should probably lean."

"Why do I have to lean first?"

"Because I thought of it," I say matter-of-factly.

"No, you just repeated it from a story."

"Just do it, Petra Arkanian."

"Fanboy."

"And proud."

Then he slowly and timidly reaches towards me. "Don't drop me. My cell floor's not the nicest surface to splat on."

I smirk, and then his palms press against mine. Our arms are rigid and hardly move, and I have to admit, it does feel a lot safer than I thought, and by him leaning further into me, I realise he feels just as safe. So he leans further – not far enough that he can't save himself should it come to that, but far enough to make my stomach do small lurches whenever he wobbles.

"O-Oliver."

"I got you. Swear."

The back of his chair jolts against the wall, but he nods.

"Keep leaning," I encourage.

"How far?"

"Well, Petra, the girl in the story, she l-"

"Petra's a girl?!"

I nod, a little confused.

"Why am I the girl?"

I chuckle, "It's okay. She's a cool character."

"Oh, that makes it okay then," he says sarcastically. Sarcasm's something I've noticed him doing a little more lately.

"Fine, I'll be Petra."

"You'll be the girl?"

"No," I say. "I'm just comfortable enough with my gender identity to not make a big deal out of this."

He rolls his eyes. Have I ever expressed how nice it is to see this happen?

"Anyway. Petra, _the cool, girl, character,_ leans so far that she's upside-down."

"You can't go upside-down in zero gravity, genius," Carl grumbles. But he's grinning. It's nice, only adding to the whole_a__esthetically pleasing _thing he already has going for him.

"Dork," I chuckle. "Come on, you're doin' better than I thought."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Just lean."

He does, pursing his lips in concentration, and we work as a team to see how far we can go without falling. Until he's gone so far that he won't be able to save himself anymore, but, he doesn't seem to even mind. I can feel his arms trembling, adjusting their position, and I'm mirroring his adjustment to accommodate his weight, doing well, and so he leans further, and further, until he can't anymore because we're so close that it should be awkward.

But then I realise. . .

It isn't.

I'm not sure why. Usually it would be. Usually we'd pull away and I'd pretend I didn't have butterflies. But now? I don't know why it isn't awkward. Maybe it's because we have an excuse to be so close, and so we're taking advantage of it, pointlessly continuing our exercise together. Locking fingers and grinning and chuckling and grunting as we balance against each other, faces so close that when we take a sharp breath out each other's fringe'll blow out a little.

" Oliver. "

"Yeah?" I grunt, concentrating, gripping and supporting him. I look at him when he doesn't reply, and his face's directly beside mine, his forehead touching my shoulder, so close that if he could rest it there if he wanted, and if he turned his head... he'd kiss me. But then he does turn his head, although, he doesn't kiss me. No. Though, my breath still catches, because his eyes are black, and he isn't smiling anymore, instead, his expression is serious, and his breath is fast, lips parted, twitching like they're trying to talk but can't.

I try to ask if he's okay, but my mind won't form the words, plus, I haven't stopped staring, wondering somewhere in the forbidden part at the back of my head if he will rest his head on my shoulder, or, if he will kiss me.

But then. . .

He _i__s_ leaning closer.

His fingers gently tighten around mine like he isn't even aware of it. One more second. One more second and something that neither of us thought will ever happen might actually happen. But it doesn't. Because there always has to be something – someone to come along.

"Carl, d'you know where the nail cl-"

Carol's voice is all it takes to snap us out of whatever mysterious web we've snared ourselves in. We startle horrifically, and it's a small jolt of Carl's foot that causes his chair to suddenly opt-out of life and cave out from under him with a loud snap.

"_GYAHH_!"

"Car-_hnyah_!"

We land in a messy, tangled heap with a series of smacks and clatters and grunts and yelps, hitting the solid, cold, cell floor, too caught off guard to even let go of each other.

"Boys!"

Carl and I untangle from each other, clambering to our feet, our cheeks flushed and eyes wide and mouths hanging open in muddled shock and adrenaline and suppressed intimacy that we ruthlessly swallow back down into our stomachs, like we've been caught doing something we shouldn't.

"What is goin' on in here?"

"Nothing," Carl blurts, pressing the back of his hand over his mouth as if he's scolding it, like he's afraid of what it'll do if he lets go of it.

Carol laughs. "I'm sure there're easier ways to do gymnastics around here, boys. Ways that won't involve... _collateral damage._"

She picks up a baseball glove that I'd knocked off of the sink in my fall, and I try to decide if I want more to laugh or cry, rubbing my aching arm. Carl looks away, rubbing a graze on his elbow that's bleeding.

"Need a band-aid for that?"

He shakes his head, still pressing the back of his hand over his mouth. Carol takes the hint, exchanging a last amused glance with me before returning focus: "I was wondering if you had the nail clippers?" Carl nods, grabbing them from the bedside table drawer before handing them over. "Thanks," she smiles, then gestures to the baseball mitt I dropped. "Hey, why don't you head out to the courtyard. Some o' the others're playing baseball."

"N–"

"Yes, Ma'am," I interrupt him, grabbing the mitt and his sleeve, passive aggressively giving him no choice, so, with a _"Whuh!"_ he follows me. "See you later for chores!"

* * *

"I don't wanna play baseball."

"Carol was gonna make us help sort the supplies if we didn't leave."

"I'd rather sort the supplies."

I snort, "Of course you would."

"Wait, what're we doing instead?"

I grin at the sudden anticipation in his expression, like he might be a little afraid, or nervous, "You know over by Guard Tower One, by the bank?" I ask, and he nods. "It overlooks the river, well, for weeks I've wanted to go up there."

"The guard tower?"

"The bank. Do you think it's possible to skip stones through the fence from there? It's just next to it."

"Skip what?"

"You know, when you throw a stone really hard and it bounces across the water?" He just looks at me like I'm making it up. "You've never done that?"

"No."

"I'm not."

Once past the courtyard, we see Glenn up in the tower on watch with a pair of binoculars. "Have you done it?" Carl asks. "You know, skipped stones?"

"Yeah, few times back home. I wasn't very good. Penelope was. Counted seven once."

"I have no idea what that means." There's this face he makes when that happens. He'll arch his eyebrows and stretch his lips. It's kind of amazing. I'm laughing.

We get to the bank, the river just beside it like always. The graveyard's just below us by the garden, and Carl's eyes linger on it, and it suddenly dawns on me that his mother's down there. _**You should apologise. **__For what? __**I don't know. But you should say something; tell him he doesn't need to be here.**__ But he'__s_ _been __work__ing__ on the gardens for over __seven months. __**Okay, so, maybe just don't say anything. Sometimes it's better not to.**_ So I keep my mouth shut, like always, and after a nanosecond he just glances back at me, and we keep walking.

The bank's a lot steeper than it looks, but we get up there and it's high enough that any walkers don't really notice us, and any that do aren't anything significant. Walkers are lining up all along the fence anyway. So we don't worry about it. No. We do. But we make it our everything not to talk about it.

I pick up a stone, take aim, then flick my wrist as hard as I can. But it hits the fence with a loud _clacka!_ as stone collides with metal. "Dammit."

I try again, but a walker's head gets in the way and the stupid thing slumps onto its rotten ass, only to rise again and claw at the fence. I think Carl'll laugh, but he just glares at it. Or is he squinting? I realise I'm glaring at it, too. Not just squinting.

"We'll throw over," I say. "See who can get their stone the furthest." Carl and I pick up a stone each, poising ourselves to throw. "One. Two. _Throw_!"

He wins. The next throw, I win. He's getting competitive. So am I. Just, not as much as him. No, I'm more nonchalant about it all, and we continue like this, losing track of time. Losing track of trying to not be kids. Losing track of trying not to smile because it's impossible not to anymore.

I'm on my back now, knees bent, absentmindedly throwing stones high enough up into the air to get over the fence behind me but not giving enough effort for my stones to get to the water, and they land a few feet away from the shore, kicking up mud and weeds. Carl's sat beside me, legs crossed, tossing the stones over with just as much lack of effort as me.

"You look dead," is what he finally says to me.

"Yeah? Punk!" I growl, ripping grass and dirt from the ground and throwing it at him, and he lets out a funny grunt, flinching. "Dead."

He snickers, picking at blades of grass.

"It's called sunbathing." It isn't intentional sunbathing. Laziness might be more accurate. He's smiles at the water, scratching his chest. "That's where you got shot isn't it?"

He stops, looking at where I'm looking, nods, and then points to the base of his ribcage on the right side. I'd heard of the story, and so I just rest my head back and close my eyes. "Have you ever gotten hurt like that?"

"Nope," I say, "never been shot. Never been stabbed. I have been beat up pretty bad a few times at school. Um... Never been bitten." That's meant to be a joke, but it isn't funny. "I-I did see someone get bit once. Actually, saw a lot of people get bit." I'm drifting, talking but not filtering. . . "A lot of times." Then I trail, coming to before I let myself think about it. "No, uh, but... Before the Turn, I used to always go to hospital for stuff. Mostly when I was a little kid. Before we moved to Virginia."

"Why?"

I shrug. "Just used to get sick all the time. Flues, colds, migraines, asthma attacks, yacking for no reason. And I'd get cuts and bruises really easy. Had tests done, doctors changed my diet and monitored me at home and stuff but, I don't know. They just never found a diagnosis. Just a sick kid. But when I got older I just sort of grew out of most of it."

Carl smirks brilliantly, shoots me down with a quick, "Apart from your weak stomach and asthma."

By now, I've thrown up on three different occasions since knowing him. First, threw up in the courtyard after I ate some bad jarred salmon paste that went out of date seven years ago –prison food sucks. Second, he came into my cell holding a bucketful of worms and rotten vegetables and I threw up into my sink. The third time was when Judith yacked over Beth's shoulder. I had to run to the bathroom.

"Yeah," I grin. "But I'm not dead yet." He looks away then. I wasn't sure why. Maybe _yet _was too sadisticly ironic. "Once, they thought it might've been an allergic reaction to chocolate."

He chuckles.

"It wasn't," I say. "Thank, God. Don't know what I'd do without chocolate."

"Not much around here."

I pretend to wince, closing my eyes and letting out a dramatic sigh. "I know!" I cry up into the sky. "It's _torture_. The Apocalypse_sucks._" It's kind of more bitterly true than I mean it to be, so I smirk, keeping up momentum of the conversation.

Carl goes along with it. "What other tests did they do on you?"

I sit up, look at him, "Nothing major. Had a lot of blood tests."

"Yeah? What's your blood type?"

"O Negative."

"I'm A Positive," he says.

"Nice to meet you," I joke, and Carl does this thing where he bites his lip and watches me instead of laughing, and I have to look away for a second before I can take looking at him again. "I can give blood to you," I say. "Actually, I can give blood to anyone."

"Cool," Carl says, and he's stopped watching me now. Now he's sort of frowning. I don't know why.

"Yeah, but, I can't take blood from anyone else without O negative blood, too, so, that's kind of a bummer." He's smiling again. I'm floating up into the sky like a hot air balloon. "But it's cool," I say, coming down again, deflating like a whoopie cushion. "Doubt I'll ever need a transfusion. I mean, doubt I'd even get a chance to have one if I needed it. Out here and all."

His smile fades again. I deflate more. I can hear the blowing raspberries in my head. I roll my eyes at myself. _**Stop ruining the conversations, dork!**_

"Come on, one more game to see who's stone'll go farthest?" I propose.

"Yeah."

So we do, only _'one more game'_ turns into _'several more games'_ and it's the end of Maggie's and Glenn's shift –which's usually around three or four in the evening, by the time we're heading back to our cells, agreeing to meet up a little later before I have to do chores.

"I've fallen in like with you," I say, only it sounds more like, "Later, man."

"Madly and crazily and completely in like with you," I imagine him saying back, but he really just says, "Yep."

My cell's empty when I get inside. Patrick must still be playing baseball with the others. There're a few people in the common room going about their afternoon, but that looks to be the only people around. I pull off my beanie and put it on my bedside table, then close my curtain and slump down on my cot, sighing, my body melting into the hard and lumpy mattress. I feel at home. Really, really. It feels warm and quiet and comfortable and relaxed. A few shards of light scatter in long likes across the floor through the curtain, and I'm in my own room, in my own bed.

My mind drifts, and naturally, my memories linger on one teenager in particular, retracing. Our _gymnastics _attempt. Skipping stones. Talking. Smiling and floating away like balloons. Then I'm drifting to things that didn't happen at all, thinking of what I kind of maybe wanted to have done with him as well. I start playing out what I wanted to happen if only Carol hadn't walked in at the moment she did. . . I'm not sure why I think this a good time to be thinking about these sort of things, again. But I am thinking of them. I'm thinking of his eyes. His blue, blue eyes. And his freckles. And his smile.

_Aesthetically pleasing.  
__Spellbinding.  
__Whatever the hell it is.  
__Whatever the hell **he **is._

I think about what it must be like to feel his hair between my fingers, or his jaw against my mouth, and, is it bad that simply wearing his shirt and jacket is only making it all the more tempting? Regardless, as a result, with little to no rational thought process, my hand travels down to my jeans, a finger touching the edge of my belt buckle. . .

Patrick walks in.

"_Nyah_!"

My gasp is so sudden that it almost winds me, and I roll right off the cot. He doesn't even look at me at first. Not until I'm just a groaning, stuttering mess on the cold, cell floor, cheeks burning, staring in horror at him, and he's staring right back, stopping in his tracks. "Hi?"

"Patrick."

Then his eyes narrow, and I'm not sure if he's going to scream at me or burst out laughing. . . "Were, you, just about to...?"

"_No_!"

He laughs and grimaces at the same time.

"I wasn't!" I yell, begging and pathetic and mortified.

"It's the middle of the day."

"I wasn't doing anything!"

_FuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUUUUUCK!_

He snorts, unconvinced, grabbing our soccer ball. "Well if you're not too _busy... _Me and the others are gonna play soccer." Then he snorts, and I'm stuffing my hands in my pockets, pulling out of self-consciousness. "Might take out your tension more productively."

"Fuck you, Pat."

"Language," he scoffs. "Are you gonna come or not?"

I frown, not sure if that's supposed to be an innuendo, and if it is I hate him for it. So I grab the soccer ball from him, muttering an irritated, "Ass hole," as I lead the way out of our cell.

* * *

Most of the kids were out in the back yard on the East side of the prison. Mika, Lizzie, Molly, Luke. I guess the others are around somewhere. Beth and Zach are out here, too. Beth's with Judith, alternating between watching, babysitting and writing in her notebook. Zach's sort of the coach for both teams, splitting us up into three against three with skill sets shared as equally as he can manage. Me, Luke and Mika, against Patrick, Lizzie and Molly.

Patrick and I are at war, Luke's a good goalie, and Mika does her best not to get trampled. On my brother's team, Molly's a surprisingly stealthy midfielder, managing to slip past me on more occasions than I ever want to admit, and at one point she gets Lizzie to do this thing where she pretends to kick one way but kicks it behind her instead, and so Molly's quick enough to speed past and pass to Patrick, letting him score a goal. Needless to say, his team wins.

"Oh, hey, man," Zach says, and my stomach does that strange jerk again when I see Carl strolling towards us. "Wanna play?"

He shrugs, "Guess."

I look up towards C-Block, spotting Rick watching us. _Oh. _It occurs to me how irritated Carl looks and I realise he's just lost an argument –the same one as always. He doesn't want to play soccer, not today, but of course, like always, Rick's made him.

"Well c'mon then," Zach grins enthusiastically. I can see the steam pour out of Carl's ears. "You go on Patrick's team. I'll go on Oliver's."

Carl stalls, greeting his sister, but when he looks back to the prison and sees his father still watching he finally wanders over to be midfielder on Patrick's team. Rick turns and goes inside, satisfied.

"Okay, let's go!"

So we continue our game, one extra player on each team. My team does considerably better with Zach playing, but the same can be said for Patrick's team, too. Despite Carl's hesitance, he's still the most competitive human being ever. I know this. But Zach doesn't. Zach's holding back to keep a fair game, but when Carl unleashes his own version of soccer-badassery on us all the older teenager steps up, too. Poor Mika gets slightly trampled, only once, which kind of results in her just sort of sprawled across the grass having a pretty hysterical laughing fit all while I grovel beside her, apologising over and over again because I'm a thousand percent that sure my knee'd gone right through her torso a second ago. But she's okay, choking more on her laughter than how completely winded she is. But okay.

After a little while when the sun's beginning to set and we know we're going to need to head in soon, our game settles and becomes pretty docile. So much so that we aren't really playing at all, just sort of absentmindedly passing the ball to whoever asks for it, talking and chatting and joking about things that kids are supposed to talk about. Zach's off on the side with Beth and Judith by now, and Lizzie and Molly'd retreated over there too, and so it's just Patrick, Luke, Carl, Mika and I still on the field.

"What was the name of that show, with the starfish?" Mika wonders, skipping along with us.

I kick the ball to Luke. "What?"

"You know, there were jelly fish, and, um, a squid, and, um, the theme tune was like. . ." She hums it when Luke passes to her.

I recognised the tune immediately. "SpongeBob SquarePants!"

"Oh, dude," Patrick says. "I loved that show. Used to watch it all the time."

"Oh yeah!" Mika exclaims, kicking to him. "Can't believe I forgot the main character."

"Yeah, me too," Luke says, looking a little disgruntled.

"How could you forget SpongeBob?" I ask incredulously, only slight horrified. The two kids giggle. After a few minutes I look at Carl, who's been especially quiet this evening. But he looks away. A small part of me wonders if I'd caught him watching me, because he blushes, but then I realise. . . "You've never watched it, have you?"

He looks at me, smirking, "Yeah, I have."

_Maybe I did catch him watching me? **Maybe you've just got a ****pimple****.**_

"Is Story Time on later?" Mika asks, and I stop picking at my forehead.

"No, not today," Patrick says. "Carol's got a few things to sort out with the supplies. But it'll be on tomorrow like normal." Mika nods, disappointed. Mika's favourite thing is Story Time.

"How was your day, Mika?" I ask her to cheer her up. Because she's still a feather and I've actually grown to quite love being her glue.

She grins. "Good. Helped Dad with painting the newly cleared part of the Prison."

"The one with the music room?" I asks her, and Mika nods, and I don't fail to notice Carl glance at me from the ball. We haven't spoken about the music room to anyone else, but I figure it won't matter now that it's clear anyway.

"_Ick_!" Luke grimaces. "I went in there with Molly and Allison and it was gross."

"That was weeks ago. It's clean now," Mika says.

"It was pretty gross when Carl and I– _Grahh_!" Carl had kicked the ball at my chest, hard. "Ouch! What was that for?!"

He widens his eyes, giving me a _Shut the hell up! _face that I try not to laugh at.

"When you and Carl what?" Patrick asks, stopping, which brings everyone else to a stop, too.

"Oh, um." Carl gives me that look again as I speak, with an added hint of _You spill and I'll tare your hair out _to it too this time. "Nothing," I take the obvious hint, picking up the ball before it can bounced away. "I was thinking of something else."

Patrick cocks an eyebrow, scrutinising Carl and I. "Sure..."

"How was your day?" Mika asks me.

"Oh, yeah, good," I answer a little haggardly.

"Yours?" she asks Carl. He only nods. "Luke?"

"I was with you for most of it, dummy," he giggles. "Apart from the painting."

"Oh yeah."

It's cute how she likes talking with us, like it's something she looks forward to. Mika's kind of awkward at it though. She means well. But it mostly just makes people want to pat her back and thank her for trying. But her social determination's admirable. Most of us aren't particularly good at socialising anyway, and seeing as the Apocalypse isn't a very good place to learn such skills it sort of gives me quite a bit of respect for her. I figure it's just sort of a normal thing to be awkward talking to others if you were twelve or younger since the Outbreak started. I guess I just don't have an excuse. I'm my own level of socially challenged.

"What about you, Patrick?" she says. "How was your day?"

"Fine," he says the same way he used to answer Mom after a day of school. "Chores mostly." Then he starts grinning, and my stomach barrels. "I almost caught Ol – _Oof_!"

Much like Carl had to shut me up earlier, I'd kicked the soccer ball at my brother. Only, I do it a lot harder. And at his face. Patrick practically somersaults when the soccer ball collides with the side of his face, flying head over heels, flopping to the ground with a loud grunt. I don't know whether to laugh or freeze to the spot, so I kind of do both, and we all just stare at him as he writhes on the grass, groaning and biting back curses under his breath. Once he gets over the initial shock of my attack, he starts laughing, pushing himself to sit up and look at me, his expression pained and shocked and amused all at once.

". . . _Ouch_!"

I'm looking at his glasses, relieved they aren't shattered.

"What the heck, Oliver?"

Mika and Carl are stunned, looking like they've just witnessed me pull a parrot out of my beanie, both impressed and horrified by my strength. Luke's collapsed, and now he's rolling on the ground laughing hysterically. I think about how important it is to me not to throw up, rushing with adrenaline and embarrassment, not liking the way Patrick looks like he's still ready to continue the sentence everyone's already forgotten about.

I point a finger. "_Don't,_ Pat."

"What the heck jus' happened?" Carl blurts.

"Hey, guys!" It's Zach.

"Sorry!" I call, helping my brother stand again, slightly terrified I might've given him concussion.

"You okay?" Mika asks him.

Patrick winces when he nods. "Yeah... Oliver's just gotta work on his _aim_."

"We've got chores," I tell him, refusing to look at anyone.

Patrick doesn't stop grinning. Hurting, but grinning, knowing full well he's playing the cruellest card he ever has. I'm fairly certain I'd have slugged him by now if people weren't here. But I'm pretty sure everyone's still a little worried that I will, given what happened two and a half months ago. So, without another word, I pull at my beanie and tug Patrick's sleeve to follow me.

"See you later, guys," Patrick says, rubbing the side of his face.

Carl sounds completely lost when he replies, "Uh, yeah. See you."

"Why'd you do that, Pat?"

"What?" We're through the courtyard at the main building entrance, and I'm holding the door open. "You just knocked my freaking lights out." I grumble my sigh. "It was a joke," he goes on. "Dude, I wasn't gonna tell them really."

I glare at him, "I wasn't even... God, you're such a dick sometimes. Always taking the piss out of me."

"Hey, not always."

"Yeah you do. All the time. Always making me look like an idiot in front of Carl, a-and the others."

He narrows his eyes, "Since when do you are what Carl thinks?"

"I don't. I mean, I do. He's my best friend, and the other's are, too."

"I don't always make fun of you."

"Yes, you do!"

"I didn't when you just kicked me in the face – thanks for that. And what about when you went and punched me across the face?" My cheeks flush with anger. Patrick doesn't stop: "I stuck up for you when Glenn and Daryl pointed their guns between your eyes."

"That was different."

"_How_?"

"I thought you were dead." My teeth clench, anger growing and growing like elastic bands around a watermelon.

"Dude," he says, and it annoys me so much that my hands bawl to fists, "sticking up for you isn't the only thing I've ever done for you."

"I was on my own," I continue, not letting what he'd just said go yet. "I took care of myself. _I_ kept _me_ alive while you were safe and sound and curled up in your own warm bed. You've never done anything for me. You forgot about me the moment you saw that walker grab me in the store."

I feel terrible the second I say it.

I know it isn't true.

Too stubborn to take it back.

It doesn't matter though. I did say it, and even if I'm about to apologise I don't have the chance, because Patrick spins around, and his hands come up, fast, shoving me against the corridor wall, so suddenly and angrily that there's nothing I can do.

"You have no DAMNED idea what I've done for you!" he shouts, nose to nose. "What I've had to go through just to keep you SAFE!"

My mouth's open, shocked, my breath coming heavy, actually scared of what he'll do to me. I can feel his fists. They're bawled against my shoulders. His expression is clenched and furious. I stare at him, stunned. Patrick's never been violent, ever. It overwhelms me. But then Patrick winces, letting go of me, stepping back. His eyes drop to the floor, brow arched in what looks like a painful mixture of fear and shame, as if a terrible memory is flashing across his vision that hurts him to think about. He looks like he'll cry. But he shakes it away and looks at me.

"We've got chores, Oliver."

I swallow, confused, startled, dizzy. But Patrick turns away and walks towards the cafeteria, so I follow without saying anything. We do chores, and after a while the usual joking and cheerful demeanour that is my brother returns again, and he seems to chose to forget what happened in the hallway. I take the hint, realising that whatever his outburst was about he doesn't want to have to explain yet.

* * *

"_So, we're staying this time?"__ It was two and a half months ago, a few days after I found him again. We were sat on the overturned bus watching the walkers at the fence.__ "Here? No more getting up and leaving a__nymore?__ No more running? No more fighting? No more being afraid? We can stay? Really, stay this time?"_

"_Yeah," __he answered me, and he slung his arm over my shoulder and pulled me into him. "__We don't have to keep running anymore. This__'__s our home now, Oliver. . . We're safe."_

* * *

So I accept his choice, knowing that he'll tell me everything I need to know some day when the time was right. _**What if he runs out of time? What if you do? **__We won't. We're safe here. This is our home now. We're safe._

* * *

**Notes**

Congrats for getting through all that. No more bonus chapters, promise x chapter here on out are only about 4,000 to 6,000 words x

Happy reading xx :_)_


	5. 30 Days Without an Accident

Re-edited: 02/05/2015

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

There's rustling. I open my eyes, frown into my pillow. . . "Pat?"

". . . What?" More rustling, and he grunts.

"You better not be doing what it sounds like you're doing."

"What – no I'm not jer... I'm getting dressed, moron."

I sit up, scoffing, more relieved than I let on. "Why're you getting dressed in bed."

"It's cold." A pause, and he grunts again.

"Are you sure you're not jerking off?"

There's an annoyed laugh, and then he's thrown his pyjama top down at me. "Get dressed, too, if you're gonna help with chores. Carol just came in to ask us to get coriander from the garden for her."

"Okay."

* * *

It's around the second week of December, and Pat's right, it's colder, but due to the Georgian weather by breakfast it's warm enough to eat outside. Which is nice. Daryl brought back venison yesterday and Carol and I are going to make more jerky with the coriander. The stuff we made before turned out great, given the fact that Hershel tried to bribe me with carrots for a sneaked stash of the stuff.

I can hear Daryl's fan base before I see the man. People greeting him good morning and thanking him for the venison. It's not new, his _followers. _But he still looks surprised by it. Patrick is amongst Daryl's fanbase, given how star-struck he looks when the man talks quietly to Carol. I guess I am, too, because Daryl Dixon is just about one of the coolest people alive, but I'm just not as obvious about it.

"Patrick, you wanna take over?" Carol asks, holding out the prongs.

"Yes, ma'am..." He takes them. Patrick hesitates, though, and he's still watching Daryl. "Uh... Mr. Dixon?" The man turns to him. "I just wanted to thank you, for bringing that deer back yesterday. It was a real treat, sir, and I'd be honoured to shake your hand."

_I swear, my brother's more confused than I am sometimes._

Daryl considers Patrick's offer, glancing at Carol, then me. Try as I might to stop myself I can't help the smug smirk on my face, pulling at my beanie and turning back to the jerky. Daryl looks back at my brother, licks the grease off his fingers one at a time because it doesn't occur to him that doing that is kind of gross,and then he's shaking Patrick's hand. Pat does well not to grimace and collapse to his knees all at the same time, his inner fanboy squealing at the top of its lungs, and I'm snickering, serving a bowl of oatmeal to Caleb. Carol chuckles, heading towards the courtyard,and Daryl nods to Patrick and I, following her.

Patrick goes back to cooking, shaking his head like he isn't exactly sure if he's more impressed or more grossed out by that whole interaction, and when he looks at me I laugh out loud, goading him with a short, "Brown nose," and he scoffs and elbows me in the shoulder.

It's not long later that Carl arrives from his own chores. He's got his own fanbase, too. Only, I'm it's only activist. Well, I'm it's only known activist. I note that he's got some dirt smudged on his cheek. I note then that he's got dirt smudged just about everywhere. It probably takes me longer than it should to notice that he's holding a soccer ball, too. "You almost done?"

I nod, ignoring the butterflies like always, and he helps himself to some breakfast, not waiting for either Patrick or Ito serve him like we're suppose to.

"Michonne's back," Carl says, chewing on the jerky. "She bought us back more comics. Said she wants to read some after us."

It occurs to me that I haven't actually spoken yet. "Really?"

"Looks like we've finally got her into them," he says, leaning against the counter inside the kitchen booth. A part of his flannel shirt is untucked. For a second I remind myself not to reach out and tuck it for him. "She didn't find anymore X-Men volumes, though." I've managed to impressively collect volumes one through seven since arriving here. Michonne said she'd try to look for more. "Just Hulk, Wonder Woman, Thor, two Batman comics. Oh, and Science Dog."

"Dibbs."

"Hey, no. I called dibbs on it months ago."

"Says who?" I order.

"Says my old T-shirt," Carl shoots back.

I roll my eyes. I know the one he's talking about. Patrick starts a conversation with him, and I realise Molly's waiting for her breakfast, so I serve it, then another plate for Luke. They both thank me and go.

"Dad's gone out to check the snares," Carl says a little while later, finished eating. Patrick's serving now. I'm eating my own breakfast, and I look at my friend, noticing the quiet and reserve in his tone. Carl pulls his lips into his mouth, hesitating, so I turn to him, leaning closer, listening. "He wouldn't take his gun again."

**_Oh, he's worried._**

"Right, uh." I fumble, blowing out my cheeks. "Well, he'll be okay. He's never takes very long out there."

Carl purses his lips, and I realise I answered wrong. But he brushes it off and rolls the football on front of him on the counter. It's obvious Rick's trying to make everything like it used to be. He doesn't carry a weapon, and he doesn't go near the walkers unless he has to, and he forbids Carl or any of the other kids to either. _Playing Farmer. _Pretending. Protecting. Either way, Carl hates it.

"Wanna play soccer?" I propose.

Carl nods, so Pat and I finish our breakfast, and we all head down out to the fields. It's just the three of us today, so we kind of just mess about, shooting into goals made of buckets and jack-a-lanterns,goofing around. It's fun and I only have to sit out for a minute from my asthma. But trust me, that's actually an improvement. Winter means less pollen and less pollen means better breathing and better breathing means _holy fucking functioning __lungs!_

But anyway, the soccer. We aren't keeping count but Carl insists he's winning. Because Carl Grimes is an incorrigible competitive.

But after a while he stopped, suddenly distracted, his eyes shifting to the court yard near the garden. He frowns. Then, before Patrick or I can ask what's wrong, he marches past us. Patrick and I look at each other at the same time, shrugging in sync, and we look at where he's headed. _Oh. _Lizzie, Mika, Molly and Luke are all stood by the fence. I frown too, because they're giggling. "Hey, Nick! Over here! Nick!" They wave at the lifeless corpses, not noticing Carl, Patrick and I heading over to them.

"You're _naming _them?"

They startle, spinning around to face us, fixing their eyes on Carl who'd asked. Lizzie takes a few steps forward. "Well," Mika starts, "one of'm had a name tag, so, we thought all of'm should."

Patrick's frowning. I know what this reminds him of. Our parents. I kept calling them by their names even when they were dead and growling. . . even after what we did. . . how we lived. . . for weeks.

"They had names when they were alive," Carl explains. "They're dead now."

"No they're not," Lizzie tells him, meaning it. I don't mean to grimace, stopping only when she looks at me. "They're jus' different."

Poked, Carl shifts his weight on his hips, narrowing his eyes. Patrick and I know enough not to talk. "What the hell are you talking about?" the Grimes orders. "Okay – they don't talk. They don't think. They eat people. They kill people."

"People kill people," Lizzie retorts quickly. "They still have names."

"Have you seen what happens? Have you seen someone die like that?" Carl asks.

"Yeah. I have."

It shouldn't be so intimidating watching this. But it is. The glares exchanged are of equal hostility between the pre-teen and the teen. It makes me wonder if Pat and I'll have to jump between them and pull them away from each other. "They're not people and they're not pets," Carl warns. "Don't name them."

Lizzie looks hurt, like she's going to start crying, but she shakes it off and looks to the others. "Let's jus' go read. C'mon."

They leave,except Mika, who watches them go, then turns to us. "Comin' to story time tonight?"

He glances at me and Carl. "Uh.. Yeah."

Mika cranes her neck, "Oliver?"

Without a word, I quickly nod yes, tuggingon my beanie, aware of the way Carl cocks an eyebrow at me.

Mika grins and rises on tip-toes for a moment. "See ya then."

Then she's gone. Despite his annoyance a moment ago, Carl doesn't try not to smirk widely at Patrick, teasing him.I know I'm next.

"We go sometimes," Patrick defends. "We're immature." I glare at him. In truth, sure, I like the books we read, but I only keep going for Carol's survival lessons. "You wouldn't dig it. It's for kids." Carl chuckles at the floor, nodding in a mockery. I glare at him, too. Then Patrick taps my arm. "We're gonna head up there, too. Catch you later, young sir."

"Yep," Carl sighs, looks at me, cocking an eyebrow. Even when Patrick walks away and takes Lizzie's hand, Carl doesn't stop looking at me. Then again, I haven't stopped looking at him either. I wonder why, for a second, and then he smirks. It's small and it spreads over his lips slowly and only on one side. I feel like I've been shot. So I frown. Frowning is sometimes the only defence mechanism against him that I have. Everything else he cuts through like it's made of butter. I stop thinking about butter and turn away. . . "Bye."

_God. GodGodGodGod._

"Yep."

* * *

"_The children fastened their eye upon their bit of candle and watched it melt slowly and pitilessly away, saw the half inch of wick stand alone at last, saw the feeble flame rise and fall, climb the thin tower of smoke, linger at its top a moment, and then..._" Carol stops reading Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, because Ryan Samuels' finally left the library. I look at Luke expectantly.

"Ma'am?" he says on cue. "Should I take watch now?"

"Yes, Luke, you do that," she says, and without a word the young boy goes to the door. Carol takes out a large heavy-looking, rectangular box. Opens it. "Today, we are talking about knives," she says clearly. I crane my neck to get a better view of the array of sharp blades inside. "How to use them. How to be safe with them. And how they could save your life–"

"Ma'am, may I be dismissed?"

_P_a_trick?  
_**_He never interrupts anyone._**

I look at him, frowning,shocked to see that he's pale and sweaty. I sort of stare at him, looking him up and down. Same for Carol, too. "What is it?" Carol takes the question out of my mouth.

Patrick shakes his head, looking tired. He gulps. "I'm not feeling very well."

"Sometimes you're gonna have to fight through it," she says. I'm still staring. "What if you wind up out there alone?" All he manages is a stiff nod. Like it might've hurt. "Will you just give up 'cause you're feeling bad?"

"No, it's just. I-I don't want to yack on somebody."

A few kids shuffle away, but I don't take my eyes off of him. Bad feeling. I know my brother, and he isn't one to complain about anything. So him needing to leave so bad means that he _really _isn't feeling well.

"Go," Carol allows.

"Pat, you gonna be okay?" I whisper, missing his wrist when I reach out to it. Because he's rushing, barely managing a quick nod over his shoulder before he's out of the library.I nod back even though he's gone, watch the door swing shut. Carol begins teaching again, and I turn my head without moving my eyes. But something shuffles behind the bookshelf and I double take.

_Well fuck.  
__Well __fuck.  
__Well __fuck._

It's him.  
It's Carl fucking Grimes.

His eyes meet mine, nothing but hurt and betrayal in them, and I stare at him desperately, feeling like my heart's about to yack inside itself, stumbling over its beats. With a sigh,Carl emerges from his hiding spot. Carol sees him too, falls silent. He glares at all of us, especially me. My throat goes dry. A horrible wave of guilt stabs me in the gut. Inside of me is lies and dulling rainbows and lost machetes, and they spill out of me all over the place.

"Please..." Carol says, "don't tell your father."

Carl glares at her. Then shifts his eyes to me, glaring harder. I see his hands bawl up into fists. He's mad. Madder than I've ever seen him. So mad I can see the steam puffing from his nose and ears. I can see the embers sparkle away from the ends of his hair and fingertips, flittering across the floor. Burning me.

When I stay silent, the hurt in Carl's expression is so heartbreaking that it's almost unbearable to look at him. His electric blue orbs sting, hurting without doing anything. Then he spins on his heel and rushes out of the library, leaving so much tension behind that you can cut it with one of Carol's knives. I look at the floor because the floor doesn't hurt to look at right now. But I know I should talk to him, and when my gaze lifts to Carol she seems to think the same thing, gesturing I go. So I get up and leave the library. I'm sprinting when I get into the hallway, hearing his angry footsteps heading back to C-Block.

_Talktalktalk.  
_". . . Carl."

His shadow turns the corner at the end of the corridor. I run faster, ignoring my lung's protest. I don't see him stood right around the corner, waiting for me, his back leant against the wall and his eyes narrowed and hurt and still too blue. . . so I run right into him.

He jerks back, and I skid to a stop, stare, panting, and he crosses his arms, refusing to relent his glare. _Talktalktalk. _"I... I'm sorry," I apologise breathlessly. More narrowed blue eyes and gritted teeth. "Look, I'm sorry. Please. We gotta learn about that stuff."

Carl removes himself from the wall, walks away.

"We couldn't tell you," I plead.

"Of course they couldn't!" he suddenly hisses, spinning around. I step back when he marches towards me. "But _you_! You're meant to be my best friend!" A pause. I blink. "And you've been lying to me this whole time!?"

"I didn't lie," I mutter, feeling like an insect. "I didn't tell you. I-I _couldn't _tell you."

Carl's jaw clenches, disgusted. "I'm glad to hear our friendship means so much to you."

"It does!" I blurt out, meaning it so much I grow. Grow and grow and grow. Filling up the whole corridor like a plug. "But I made a promise, Carl."

It's the smallest nod, but it's all the acceptance.

My shoulders come down, and I shrink to normal size again. "Will you tell your Dad?"

". . . I have to."

I look at the floor, nodding. "I know."

Carl's eyes study me. "I'm gonna go find him – you should go check on your brother. He didn't look so good."

* * *

**_You need your inhaler._**

"I'll wait. I don't need it yet."

"Oliver, dude, shut up."

"Sorry."

I'd found Patrick in my bunk; bottom. Seems he couldn't make it up to his own. He was asleep, but, I guess talking to myself woke him.

"Pat..." I take off my beanie and drop it on my bedside table, sighing. "Feeling any better?"

He opens one eye, frowning. When he tries to sit up he runs out of stamina and slumps back down again. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"No, man, you look terrible," I protest. "You're sweating through my sheets.I'm gonna go get Dr. S."

"No! I'm fine." I reach out to him, about to feel his forehead, but he waves me away. "It's just a stomach bug. I don't need a doctor."

I sigh. Patrick's a very proud person. He's always hated asking people for help. So, despite feeling terrible, he'll only refuse Dr. Subramanian's help. So I relent. "Fine. But I'm gonna get you a rag or something – cool you down."

I'm given acceptance with a pair of rolling eyes. So I grab a rag from the sink and wet it under the tap, sparingly, because I know there's only so much water we can use with the irrigation system. I ring it out, then throw it at him. _What? Just because I offered doesn't mean I'm gonna do it for him._

He grunts, laughs weakly, but presses it over his forehead. "Thanks, jerk."

I take a seat on the floor next to him, crossing my legs, dipping my head and tapping my fingers against my knees. "Carl saw us at story time," I find myself saying. "He was watching just as you left."

His eyebrows raise weakly. "What did he say?"

I sigh, shrug. "He's mad. Will be for a while if I know him at all." Which, I do. By the way. "He's telling Rick."

"Doesn't surprise me," he explains, not gossip, which takes me a moment to realise,just factual. "Carl's got this thing about telling his Dad everything."

"Wait, hasn't he always?"

Patrick shifts his eyes to me, shakes his head, gulps. "When I got here he still had his gun, and he didn't even talk to me. Or the others. We'd hang out in C-Block sometimes but we didn't do anything together. I'd sit and mess with lego and he'd be cleaning his gun."

I scoff. "Weren't kidding about the immature thing, huh?"

Patrick smirks, rolling his eyes, taking a breath until he coughs on it. I watch, worried, but he keeps talking: "When Rick took his gun –took my knife, too–Carl's been doing more normal stuff like his Dad wants. Soccer and hanging out with us, you know?"

"Yeah," I confirm. "I figured it out. Just, didn't know he wants his dad's acceptance that much."

". . . I'm sorry."

"What? Why?" I ask.

"For what happened, at the store. For leaving you."

I shake my head. "Stop."

"No," he says, and he looks like he's going to cry, "you were out there alone, for _five _months. I didn't tell anyone about you. I just couldn't. When Mom and Dad died..."

"I don't wanna talk about th–"

"We lost everyone. It was just us. And then I lost you. It was my fault. You were alone and it was my fault. And you can hate me for it if you want to."

"Pat," I say, curt, aware of the swell in my chest and the welling in my eyes. "I forgive you." It only occurs to me now that I've never said this to him. But I've never blamed Patrick for our separation. Not even when I attacked him the day I arrived. I was just in shock then. I only hated the circumstance, not my brother. "So shut the fuck up and get to sleep."

He laughs, turning away to get comfortable, "Love you, bro."

"Pfft. You must be sick." I lie back on the floor, quickly nabbing Order of the Phoenix from my stash and continuing on it. After a few minutes I put it down and look up to him. "I could never hate you. No matter how much of a pain in the ass you can be."

He laughs, sighs, and then my brother is asleep.

* * *

"Oliver."

I'm on my way back from the bathroom, and Carl is sat on the common room bench. I smile. "Oh, hey." I realise that he's probably still mad at me, so I stop smiling. "Did you tell him?"

Carl shakes his head, "No," he answers, soft, "ran into trouble out there –some lady."

"He okay?"

A nod. "He's talking to Hershel about it." There's this thing Carl does with his mouth when he's worried. His lip'll twitch and purse together. "Wanna read?"

"Pat still feels like shit. I don't think he'd appreciate it if anyone saw him right now. I wanna keep an eye on him though, so, I'm gonna stay with him."

Carl nods, "Tell him get better soon." It seems he hasn't held a grudge, which I don't outwardly appreciate as much as I really do. I'm about to turn away, but he's lingering, shifting his eyes between me and his hands, "Oliver, can I talk to you, about something?"

I nod, "Shoot."

His mouth opens, but no voice comes out. Then he stands up, and my eyes widen when he suddenly slaps my shoulder, but doesn't give me an explanation as to why, instead, he just turns on his heel and leaves the cell block.

"Erm... _okay..._" I go back to my cell and climb the top bunk, grabbing my flash light. "Carl says get well soon," I whisper to a sleeping Patrick, who of course doesn't respond. So I dig into my book again. I don't notice when I begin to fall asleep, or when my flash light -which is still turned on- falls from my mouth, along with the book that is now rested on my torso. But I come to after what feels like moments, which I soon realise is around three AM, jolting awake. Someone is coughing. Hard. Coughing up their lungs. Coughing up their life.

It's Patrick.

"Pat?"

More coughing, only he's out of bed now.

"Pat?"

"G-go back to–" He coughs. "To bed, Ol–" A deep, guttural splutter. "Oliver."

I groan into my – _his _pillow. "W-what's wrong with you?"

"I'm fine. G-go–" It's a violent cough this time, stifled desperately. "B-back to bed, I just gotta–" More coughing. "Cool down."

I frown, but do as he says, tired and dazed and lazy, rubbing my eyes. So he stumbles out of the cell, his bare feet slapping against the cold floor all the way through the cell block. I listen for as long as I can, which is only a few seconds, and then my fatigue gets the better of me and I fall asleep again.

_He'll be fine. _

**_Yeah, he always is._**

* * *

**Notes**

Hope you enjoyed, please leave a comment on your way out x

Happy reading xx :_)_


	6. Infected, Part 1: Patrick

**"Brother" by Matt Corby**

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

I wake up early.

Well... early for me, at least. 5:47AM I read, glaring at the clock on the bedside table. I don't have to be up for more than an hour. _This time shouldn't even exist. _But it's even worse that going back to sleep when you wake up on naturally is impossible. So I sit up, yawning, stretching. **_Might as well get up anyway. Carl'll be heading down to chores soon._**I am about to roll out of bed, only to suddenly remember that I'm on the top bunk, so with a gasp I grab the frame. I still fall, just a little less uncontrollably. So I land on my butt on the floor with a quiet grunt, rubbing my elbow.

Looking up, I fail to see my brother in my cot. I frown,look around. _He's not here?_I get up and poke my head out of my cell. _Maybe he's gone out already? _So I dress, quickly; beanie, khaki jeans, grey T-shirt and red flannel. I brush my teeth and attempt flattening a few cow-licks in my hair, but it's pointless. Actually, no, it's pointful. Points of hair flopping and flapping all over the place. _Whatever. _I find my torch under Pat's blanket, switched on, batteries dead. "Balls."

Someone walks past and out of D-Block, and quickly pull on my sneakers, hopping on one foot, then following them, wondering if it's Patrick. I follow them down the corridor, glancing at the decorated pictures on the walls that the kids drew –a few Carl drew, too, like the drawing of the deer he saw when he got shot. Carl's quite a talented artist. I see the exit door shut, quickening my pace, accidentally pushing the door open right into them.

"Shit."

It's not Patrick.

"Sorry, ma'a– Michonne." She'd told me to call her by her real name a while ago. I just, forget sometimes.

"Oliver," Michonne says, smiling, continuing on her way towards the courtyard. "You're up early."

"Have you seen Pat?" I ask.

She curls her mouth down. "Can't say I have."

Worry pokes at my gut, but I nod. Nod and nod and nod.

"I'm headed out," she says when I nod for too long. "Goin' out on a run with Flame. I'll help you look for him."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it. "He's probably just getting a head start on preparing breakfast."

We head down, and I break away to check the outdoor cafeteria for him, but Patrick's not here.

"Do you want me to help look?" Michonne offers when I come back to her.

But I shake my head, smiling gratefully. **_Don't worry, Oliver. You're just overreacting. _**_I don't know. I've got a bad feeling about this. _I stop smiling when Michonne tilts her head, seeing through me. So I pull the courtyard gate open and motion to Flame's paddock in the field. "Do you want a hand with her?"

"Sure, kid," she smiles.

I inhale deeply when we pass the garden, taking in the herbs lie paprika and coriander and sage and mint. _Home. _That's what it smells like. But not old home. _Home _home. _Now _home. Michonne shuts the paddock behind me, going over to the fence post opposite to grab the halter. Flame pushes her with her nose, and Michonne scratches her shoulder affectionately, whispering a soft, "Hey, girl," into her tall chestnut ear.

Then Flame turns her attention to me. . .

"Hold your hand out," Michonne says, because I'd kind of pressed my back against the fence and held my breath. Flame watches me, like she's not exactly sure what I'm trying to do. But I ease up, and so does she, stepping forward and stuffing her long muzzle against my pockets. Her top lip wiggles against my hip, and I laugh. "What is she doing?"

Michonne chuckles, "You got anythin' for her?"

I fish into the pocket that the horse is so interested in, pulling out an almost empty Graham cracker packet. "Does she like crumbs?"

"Ask her."

I grin, startling only a little when Flame greedily pulls the plastic out of my hand. I grab it back before she eats it, feeding her the contents while Michonne starts on grooming. "Yeah," I say. "She likes them." I grin like a fool, chuckling as her muzzle flaps over my palm to get every last crumb. When the mare's satisfied, I wipe the slobber from my hand and put the empty packet back in my pocket. I've never really been around horses before, but I decide in this moment that I like them.

"I'll teach you how to ride if you want?" Michonne says once she's put the saddle and bridle on, stocking up the saddlebags.

"Yeah, I'd like that," I smile, patting Flame on the neck.

"You can lead her if you want?"

I nod, taking the reins under Flame's chin, gently leading her out of the paddock. I'm not really leading her though. She's sort of just walking with us anyway. Just as we walk across the driveway, Carl and Rick make their way down to the garden. I smile at them.

"Morning!" Rick calls.

Michonne takes Flame's reins, bringing her to a stop. I walk around the horse. "Morning, sir."

"You're up early," Carl notes, smiling and frowning at the same time. Overall, not in a bad mood this morning.

"Yeah," I say. "I was gonna come and say hi but you beat me to it."

"I haven't said hi yet."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever."

He puts his arm up. I'm not sure why, so I high five him. Maybe he's feeling in an especially good mood today, or maybe he's just tired from having to wake up so Goddamn early, but Carl locks our fingers, squeezing. Granted, only for a moment. I chuckle in surprise –not indifferent, just, not expecting it. But at my reaction Carl lets go immediately, then looks away. _Is he… nervous?_

"Careful out there," Rick tells Michonne.

"Always am," she replies. "Any requests? Books? Comics?" She's talking to us now. I'm grinning at her. "Some stale M&amp;M's?" Ever since the incident in the candy store, neither her or Daryl have let it go. The other day I was carrying a bag of Granola bars and Daryl said, _"__Careful, don't throw them at me, too." _

Regardless, I nod to her, thinking, _Chocolatechocolatechocolate._

"You two're the ones who like stale M&amp;M's," Carl criticises.

"Then I'll definitely be looking for some. I'll look for some stuff you like, too," she tells Carl.

"I'll open the gate," I say, breaking away from Carl and Rick, walking with Michonne and Flame.

"Hey," she says to Carl, "why don't you wear your hat anymore?"

"It's not a farming hat," Carl responds, walking backwards. I watch him, confused. _What hat? I've never seen Carl wear a hat. Well, except for my hat, which actually suited him kind of completely perfectly. The hippie walker slayer style works __for him. _**_Oliver, focus. _**Carl purses his lips, lifting his brow, the look meaning: _I'll show you later... _Then he looks at Michonne, "See you soon?"

"Pretty soon."

I don't fail to catch the look of anxiety on his face. I arch my brow at him, and he purses his lips back and nods, so I look away. Michonne smiles at me. I'm not sure why. So I talk, "What hat?"

"He's got a sheriffs hat – used to wear it everywhere," she explains, mounting Flame. The horse shakes her head, adjusting her hooves to accommodate for Michonne. "Hasn't he ever shown you?" I shake my head, genuinely taken aback by this. I try imagining Carl wearing a sheriffs hat. But I can't. I pull open the inner fence. "Thanks, Oliver."

"Stay safe," I say, pulling the inner gate closed behind her. "Oh – Wolverine. That's Carl's favourite comic. Or more Science Dog."

"I will. See you."

"Pretty soon," I say quietly, pulling open the outer gate, helped by Rick who then tells me he'll do it. So I go, looking over my shoulder and watching Michonne and Flame make their way down the driveway in a steady trot. Carl's feeding the piglets, and I go over to him, noticing their mother's absence. "Where's violet?"

Carl sighs, "She died. Yesterday night. We don't know why."

"Sorry, man."I wince, knowing full well that he's a lot sadder about this than he's letting on. So I step close, the fence post between us, and I lean on it, bumping my shoulder against his. "Sucks."

He dips his head, nodding, thumbing at the fence post. Then he looks up at me, brow arched, lips twitching. It's his, _I really need to talk to you _face. It makes me nervous. "Oliver?"  
"Yeah." A long pause, and in it he just watches me, shifting his weight on his hips, beating a jittery rhythm into the fence post. I smirk. "Look, as much as I like staring at you, too, I'm kind of waiting for you to actually say something." It amazes me the shit that comes out of my mouth when I'm trying to be nonchalant. It only seems to be effective with Carl. Around anybody else I'll mess up. But with him, I don't know, I'll say it and he'll always look more taken aback than I am.

"Okay," he says, like he's just decided something. "It's just... no... um... I just... I keep trying to–" He stops and looks up towards the courtyard when we both hear something _clank, _spotting Carol beginning to prepare breakfast in the outside cafeteria, but still no Patrick. "Oliver?"

"Have you seen my brother today?"

Carl's staring, eyebrows furrowed, cheeks flushed. ". . . No."

"Sorry," I say, distracted, anxious, something gnawing on my gut. "Sorry I have to go."

"Oh..."

"I'll be right back."

"No, it's cool," he says, but for some reason I don't believe him. "I gotta get on with chores."

I feel torn, like I'm caught between a rock and a wall. But my brother it is the wall this morning, and so I choose to push the rock aside for a few minutes. "Okay," I say, heading off. "Catch you later."

"Oh, I thought it was Patrick's breakfast shift," is what Carol says when I get to her.I purse my lips, suddenly unable to smile. She was smiling, but her expression becomes concerned when she studies me closer. "What is it Oliver?"

"Have you seen Pat this morning? He wasn–"

**BOOM!**

I startle horrifically mid-sentence and spin on my heel to look towards the gunfire. It's coming from D-Block!

**BANG!**

I look at Carol desperately, but she has no idea what's happening either. "Help!" Lizzie. I startle. "HELP!" More gunfire, and she and Mika bolt out of D-Block. "Please, come quick!"

Carol and I run to them, and the two panicked girls fling themselves into Carol's arms. "Th-there are walkers! Walkers in the cell block!" Mika cries.

"Where's my brother?" I ask, my voice small and hoarse.

"Walkers in D!" Glenn roars.

Everyone is running. I spin on my feet,trying to think a thousand things at once. _How did walkers get into D-Block? Was someone __bit? Where could a walker've just... come in?_ **_What if one didn't? What if someone turned? _**_Where's Patrick?_

"What about C!?" Rick shouts, running, too.

"Clear!" Sasha comes running out of C-Block with Daryl and Tyreese. "We locked the gates to the tombs. Hershel's on guard!"

"It ain't a breach!" Daryl growls.

"We followed the plan!" Sasha calls desperately.

I watch in total confusion. Rick spins on his feet, watching his friends run past him, panic rising. But he sprints after them,and without hesitating, I follow. We rocket down the corridor, crashing around the gate. Chaos. Pure, terrifying chaos. People are screaming and wailing and bleeding. Walker faces are dotted among living. It makes it nearly impossible to tell them apart. Everyone panicking.

"Oliver!" Rick yells, urging people out of the block. "Get out o' here!"

"Patrick!" I roar over the gunshots and screaming, pelting myself to our cell. But he's not inside. I crash back out, and a walker falls to my feet, snapping at my shoes. Immediately,I crush its head under my foot with one blow, and its rotten, decomposing skull gives in under my shoe sole, brain matter exploding over the floor. It's only after all of this that I realise it's a girl from the room three doors up. Her name was Teddy. She was from Woodbury. A few years older than me. Patrick told me they once kissed in the mail-room when they were supposed to be collecting magazines for Story Time. I didn't believe him.

That's the first walker I've killed in months.

I snap out of my daze when Luke screams. Another walker crawls at him, grabs his ankle, yanks. I kick it in the face. "Luke, come on!" I shout, taking his collar and wrenching him to his feet. He's crying, grabbing at me, clinging to my arm, because the walker hasn't stopped. Then a green bolt punctures its eyeball. His name was Klye. He got here a few weeks after me.

"Get back!" Daryl growls, throwing Luke over his shoulder and carrying the traumatised child over to a cell with Karen. I expect Daryl to tell me to get in, too, and I ready myself to protest. But he nods, quickly handing me a hunting knife from his belt. "Go!"

So I go. An adult walker I recognise as a thirty-two year old woman called Lacey, with long, curly, blood-stained hair, attacking another woman who lives next door to me called Allison, pinning her to the floor. They were eating the deer Daryl caught yesterday, talking and laughing about _'the importance of feminism even in these times'_. I drive my knife through Lacey's temple. Her corps falls limp at Allison's side. I hold my hand out, pulling her to stand.

"Alison, get in the cell!"

She nods, spinning on her heel. Screams surround me, and I take out walker after walker. Oliver from D-Block goes, stands on the side lines and waits for it all to be over. Oliver who survived for five months alone is here now. Coming back. Taking over. I take out walker after walker, expelling humanity to save my friend's lives. Until finally, the ground floor looks clear. I search around and see Rick. He puts his hands on my shoulders, examining me, and I feel Oliver from D-Block come back to me, slipping back into my skin.

"Y'alright?" he pants.

I nod breathlessly, airways tightening. But I ignore it, refusing to take my inhaler here. _Notsafenotsafenotsafe. _"Are you okay?" I ask.

He nods yes, then addresses the others. "Are we clear down here? Are we safe?!"

"Yeah!" Sasha answers, checking around. "Yeah!"

Upstairs on the catwalk, Glenn, Daryl, Rick and I take every cell one at a time. One woman, Jenny, bit and dead. Daryl puts a bolt through her forehead. Another man a little further down, Liam, his stomach spilled out over the railing. Rick takes care of him. _Shit. How did this happen? I was in here less than half an hour ago._

I pull back the curtain of the next cell along, but a walker lunges at me. I gasp, yanking my arm away, hearing its teeth snap. "Shit." It pins me against the wall, growling and hissing and jerking, grabbing at my shoulders violently.

It's funny, when you see someone you know who always wears a certain type of clothing accessory, like a hat or scarf or a pair of glasses, you imagine them always wearing that item. As if it isn't an item of clothing at all but more an actual _part _of that person. Like an arm or a leg. It's just always there. But when you see them without that scarf or that hat or that pair of glasses. . . it takes you a moment to recognise them again. I never thought about it like this before. But I do now, because that's what has just happened to me. And actually, it isn't all that funny at all.

With every cell of my being, I wish what I am seeing isn't what I am seeing. But I recognise the walker that isn't wearing his black, thick-rimmed glasses anymore. . .

Patrick.  
My brother.

Blood pours from his eyes and nose and mouth and ears, glaring at me through glazed-over, angry orbs. Snapping his teeth. Spitting blood as he tries to tare me apart. Blood. Blood, spilling from everywhere.

"Patrick! Patrick, no!"

A mixture of cries, grunts and wails emit themselves from my wheezing lungs. I try to shove his lifeless corps away from me. Disbelief. Sorrow. Loss. Despair. I don't know what could be the worst feeling in me right now, but all of these emotions suddenly amplify by an unbearable amount as a bolt from Daryl's crossbow embeds itself through my brother's skull. In one temple, out the other. Right in front of me.

It seems like everything slows. My brother relaxes, goes limp, falls, and we're crashing to the catwalk floor together because I haven't let go of him.

"It's Patrick," I hear Daryl sigh.

In shock, I grab my brother around the shoulders, pulling him to me, muttering, "Nonononononono," over and over. His head rolls back, blood oozing from the end of the arrow bolt. Cries wrack my whole body, taking me over like a stampede. Because my brother's dead. _Deadeadeadead. _**_Again! _**I rock back and forth, cradling him in my arms, begging him to wake up, to stop being dead, to not leave me. Someone puts their hand on my shoulder. I jerk away, refusing to move, but they try to pull me to stand. "F-fuck off!"

"Come on, son." It's Rick. He puts a hand on my shoulder, slips it under my arm and pulls gently, but I shove him away. "You don't wanna be here."

"Fu-fuck y-you!"

But Rick is stronger than me, and even when I fight against him, thrashing at his neck and shoulders, he's yanked me to my feet. Tears pour down my cheeks, and I back away from all of them, coughing and crying and whimpering, lost, like I've been dropped down a dark hole and I'm getting buried alive and I can't get out. I'm holding the railing, gripping it, trembling, focussing. Railing: cold, metal, blood splatter. I scrunch up my face, hysteria taking over, swallowing me whole. **_Stop, Oliver. You can't do this right now._**

Rick's hand touches my shoulder blade, and I face him, nodding, wiping my eyes even though the tears don't stop. "Sorry," I wheeze. "S-sorry. Sorry. _Sorrysorrysorry._"

Rick nods. I don't think he intends for me to wrap my arms around him and cry into his front, and it only takes him off guard for a few seconds before he hugs me back, muttering a soft, "I'm sorry. He was a good kid," into my hair.

I pull away, doubling forward, burying my hands into my face,wheezing and coughing, another choked wail erupting from me. _I can't take this. It's too much._

"Take your inhaler, Oliver," Rick says, and he's hugging me again. "You're not sounding too good."

"Y-yes, s-sir." I bring myself to pull away again, and with a nod, Rick walks away, searching the catwalk with Daryl. It's just Glenn and I, Patrick's body in the cell doorway beside us. _Don'tlookdon'tlookdon'tlook. _I take my inhaler instead, whimpers making is more difficult. When I can breathe again, I ask, "Why did this h-happen?"

Glenn sighs. "I don't know..."

I only look at Patrick when Glenn goes over to him. Blood's still pouring at odd angles from his eyes and ears and nose and mouth. My heart burrows into my gut, running away from this.I frown, focussing. "C-can you see a b-bite? I-I can't s-see any."

Glenn notices, too, crouching down to him. I'm about to step close but I start crying again. Glenn tells me to take it easy. I step back, but taking it easy is something that I'm at a loss on how to even try. _What do I do now? Patrick's dead. I can't do this again. Patrick as much as died all those months ago outside that store. But he came back. Now? Now__I can see him. Proof from my own eyes that I can't deny anymore._

After checking him over, Glenn sets Patrick down again, looks up to me, frowning and confused, "He wasn't bitten..."

My hands bawl to fists against my kneecaps. _But, he said it was just a stomach bug._Glenn quickly stands up and walks to Rick, Daryl, Hershel, Bob and Caleb, all of them stood outside another cell, another dead body inside. I take a few steps towards them, but I stop, torn; not willing to leave Patrick. So to compromise I lean against the wall between the two. I listen to them, staring out over D-Block –the place I've called home for almost two months, the place now covered in blood and littered with my friends, my family.

"No bites," Rick says. "No wounds..."

"The same for Patrick," Glenn informs them. "Guys, I think he jus' died."

"Horribly too," Caleb replies. My chin shakes, grief taking over,wipingmore tears. "Pleurisy, aspiration."

"Choked to death on his own blood," Hershel interjects, "caused those trails down his face."

"I've seen 'em before," Rick says, "on a walker outside the fences."

"I saw 'em on Patrick, too," Daryl tells them. My teeth grit, imagining him choking and suffocation on his own blood, trying to call out for me, dying. And _me._ Too selfish to realise.

"Yeah, they're from the internal lung pressure building up," Caleb explains. "Like if you shake a soda can and pop the top. Only imagine, your eyes, ears, nose and throat... are the top."

I wince. My legs give way under me, like I've just been kicked in the knees. I hit the floor, shoving my back against the wall, gagging on my cries. I start to gasp, my fingernails cutting into my palms, tighter and tighter. This is my fault. Patrick was dying yesterday. And I just slept. I slept while he choked on his own blood. In pain and afraid and alone.

"Doctor. S," Daryl says, soft and coarse at the same time. "That's his brother you're talkin' 'bout."

"Sorry, Oliver," Caleb apologises.

I nod, heaving my breath, keeping my eyes shut, wanting to sink away from here. **_Stop it, Oliver. Don't let them see you like this._**

"It's a sickness – from the walkers?" Bob asks.

"Nahh, these things happened before they were around," Caleb explains, a little more self aware now, which I appreciate even though I'm crying too hard to tell him. "Could be Pneumococcal. Most likely an aggressive flu strain."

"Someone locked him in just in time." Hershel observes Charlie's corps. _They must've found him inside his cell. _I am about to tell them that he shut it himself because he sleep walks, but Daryl takes the words from my mouth.

"Nahh, man... Charlie used to sleep walk, locked himself in. Hell, he was just eatin' barbecue yesterday. How could somebody die in a day jus' from a cold?"

"I had a sick pig," Rick says. "Died quick. Saw a sick boar in the woods."

"Pigs'n birds," Hershel says. "That's how these things spread in the past. We need to do somethin' about those hogs."

"Maybe we got lucky," Caleb tries. "Maybe these two cases _are_it."

"I haven't seen anybody be lucky in a long time," Bob says pessimistically. "Bugs like to run through close quarters –doesn't get any closer than this." The worst part is, we allagree.

"All of us in here," Hershel informs everyone, "we've all been exposed."

* * *

**Notes**

Hope you enjoyed x leave a review on your way out!

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_


	7. Infected, Part 2: When a Brother Dies

"**Alive" by Sia**

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Michonne hurt her ankle on the snare by the gates. She was in trouble as she was coming back into the prison on Flame and I had to shoot a walker to save her. I know I shouldn't have used a gun, but I had to. If I hadn't, Michonne could've died. Maggie's on Michonne's right. I'm on her left. Helping her up the driveway.

I'm thinking about the shot I took. The _CLACK! _and the blood and the moment of fear and adrenaline. It was the first walker I've killed in seven months. Dad's not going to be happy. I know it. I know it like I know that I need air to breathe. Just as I think this, he comes hurrying around the corner. Relief sweeps across his blood-spattered face as he sees me, looking pale and afraid, and I know I must, too. I let go, rush to him.

"Hey. You might wanna stay back, Carl."

I'm hugging him, and he's hugging me, holding me tight as I bury my face into his shirt.

"Dad, I'm sorry," I sob. "I didn't see you come out."

"It's okay, I'm here." He rocks me in his arms for a moment. And I let him. "I'm fine. Now back away."

I do as he says; detaching myself from his torso. Dread of what I have to tell him makes my spine rigid. "I had to use one of the guns by the gate. I swear, I didn't want to." I ready myself for the scolding he's about to give me, but he's interrupted.

"I was comin' back," Michonne defends me. "I fell. They came out and helped me."

A pause. "Y'alright?" he asks her, and Michonne nods slowly.

"What happened in there?" Maggie asks. In that moment, a woman, Kimberly, walks from D-Block, cradling her dead child, Quintin, in her arms. My gut drops, and I look back to Dad. He looks devastated.

"Patrick got sick last night. Some kind of flu, it moves fast. We think he died and attacked the cell block."

At his words my stomach and heart drop to the hard gravel floor beneath me. At first not fully believing it. Because he can't be dead. I was playing soccer with him and Oliver yesterday. Then my skin crawls, pure fear swamping me over and over. No. No, no, no – "W-where's Oliver." My throat tightens; his name difficult to utter, fearing the worst. I'm so afraid that I struggle to balance myself, nauseous all over at the thought of loosing two of my best friends today.

"He's washin' up in C-Block," Dad tells me sympathetically. "He's alright. But – Carl, he's mourning. Y-gotta give him some time." I sigh, overwhelmed, drowning in grief and relief all at once, and the painful mixture of the two contrasting emotions force a hiccup from me, tears welling. "Look," Dad leans down to me, "I know Patrick was your friend, and I'm sorry. He was a good kid. We lost a lot of good people." Dad leans up again, looks at Maggie, motioning with his bloodied hand to D-Block. "Glenn, and your Dad are okay. But th-they were in there. You shouldn't get too close to anyone that mighta been exposed. At least for a little while."

This is terrible. One day. One day is all it took to send this place to ciaos. I go back to Michonne, clutching under her arm.

"Carl. All o' you."

* * *

Beth tends to Michonne.

"Is Judy alright?" I ask her quickly, knowing I can't see for myself because it could risk her getting sick.

"Yeah. She's fine," Beth says, collecting the equipment for Michonne. "She's having her nap right now."

I nod, then go into the common room, waiting for Oliver to come out of the shower room. After a while the shower stops, but a long time passes and Oliver still doesn't come out. I battle with myself. _Go and check _or _don't go and check._ But after too long I'm too worried to stop myself. He could've gotten sick, too, like Karen or David. When I swing the door open I hear a shower cubicle door shut, quickly, and then the noise of someone slumping to the floor. My heart racks in my chest, the hairs on my neck standing on end.

"Oliver? It... it's me."

A hitched breath. His or mine, I don't recall.

"C-Carl?"

"Yeah..." He's in one of the cubicles further down. I look for him, slowly and carefully. I want to say, _are you okay?_ or, _everything is alright,_ but I know it's not, and I know that Oliver isn't okay at all.

"Carl, he's dead."

"I know..."

I get to the cubicle, pressing my palm against it. Locked. Unlike in D-Block, C-Block has cubicles and bolts in their inside. We'd built them. We were going to start building them for the other cell blocks, too. But we haven't gotten around to it. I lean next to the door, my feet visible to him under it, hoping it can be of some sort of comfort. His beanie, grey top and red flannel are on the bench opposite. He must've finished his shower a while ago, probably broke down while dressing again and then hid in when he heard me come in.

He whimpers and I quickly have to wipe my eye, taken off guard by the tear. Dammit. I hate this. Just when we let our guard down the world's sent crashing to the ground on top of us. Why does it have to be like this? It's _always_ like this!

"It fucking sucks. It all does."

It's all I can think of to say, frustrated so much that I can't think of any better words to console him with. Regardless, I hear Oliver let out a sob –I think it started as a chuckle but didn't quite make it– pretty depressing, but it's a start. In truth, I don't think I've ever cussed in front of him. In front of anyone. He sounds like he's standing up, so I push away from the wall. The cubicle clicks, then slowly swings open, and Oliver emerges from the cubicle. Red, puffy eyes, miserable. "I..." He has to start over. "I gotta put a shirt on."

I grab his T-shirt, and he frowns gratefully, pulling it on, and the water droplets on his skin soaks into the grey fabric a little, dotting it darker in random places. He stares at me, eyebrows arched, trying not to cry again. I stare back, wanting him not to hurt anymore and hating the whole world because there's no way I can do that.

"I'm… I know."

Oliver nods, sniffs, stares at the floor, until we both seem to move at the same time, wrapping our arms around each other. We've never hugged before. Not once. We've sat with our shins linked –which isn't usually intentional. We've held hands –which, again, wasn't intentional, and only happened once but we both don't talk about it. But this hug isn't unintentional. This hug is gentle and loose, at first, but Oliver starts to cry again, the warm, wet tears soaking into my flannel shirt, and the hug gets tighter, more frantic, and my hands move up his back to hold on to him, his hands bawling into fists against the back of my shirt, too.

"Carl..." His ribs shake. I only hold him tighter, letting him release all the despair that is eating away at every part of him. "I-it's my f-fault," he sobs hopelessly. "It was my fault."

I pull away and frown at him. "What is?"

"I-I should've done something," Oliver whimpers. "A-anything!" He's trembling so bad it's hard to hold on to him. It almost scares me. All I can do it watch and try to shush him. But it builds. His hysteria. Builds and builds and builds. "H-he left our c-cell last n-night. He w-was already ch-choking! And, I did n-nothing. NOTHING!" I doubles over, wailing, clutching his middle. I have never seen Oliver like this. Even when he arrived he was nowhere near this broken. It's awful. "_NothingnothingnothingNOTHINGnothing_!"

"Stop it!" I grab him, half tackling him, wrapping him into a hug from behind. "You had no control over what happened today. No one did… It's not on you. It's not on you."

He whimpers, struggling against me, crying his protest, but then he turns around in my arms, suddenly, and he's hugging me back so fast that I almost fall over. But I hug him back, letting him bury his face into my shoulder, wailing into me. It takes a long time. But eventually his breathing settles to only a few hiccups a second and he can pull away without breaking down again. I watch him, and he watches me, until I lift my hands. But I hesitate, anxiety wrapping around my gut, pulling my arms down again. But I push it away, reach up, touch each side of his temples, pull.

Returning the gesture with a kiss on his forehead.  
Finally.

I'm closing my eyes, furrowing my brow, swearing to something I don't even know if I still believe in that I can feel the sorrow he's having to go through, like if I feel it too I might be able to even out the hurt, bear it with him so it's not so unbearable. Oliver's rigid, breath hitching, and he's gently gripping my wrists, then, after a moment he relaxes, suddenly, and he leans into me and wraps his arms around my middle. My breathing's quickened, feeling everything so much that it scares me. So I bring my lips away from him, studying his expression. Oliver watches me, too, like he's trying to decide something in his head.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I..." I wanted to. Doesn't he realise that? "Y-yeah," I say instead, aware of my heart bashing against my ribcage, frustration welling in my chest. "I know."

He slips down against the wall, sitting on the floor. I join him. "Look, I'm not gonna tell you everything's gonna be okay soon. Because it's never gonna be," I explain bluntly, "not anymore. And I'm not gonna tell you to cheer up, or that the pain you're feeling right now will go away one day. Because it wont."

Oliver brings his knees up, wrapping his hands around them, staring ahead. I watch his eyes shine from his tears, the golden flecks swimming in the coffee brown they reside in.

"When my Mom died," I say. "That's all anyone would tell me. _It'll get better soon_… _the pain'll pass_… _everything's gonna be alright_… I hated it. But the truth is, you need the pain, to, remember what you still have. You can't let yourself forget how bad it feels. You gotta hold onto it. You need the pain to survive. Without the pain, you forget, and it'll only hit you harder the next time... The pain you're feeling right now. It only makes you stronger."

Oliver's staring at me now, and another tear falls from his eyes. I wipe it for him before I realise I'm about to, and he frowns. Frowns and frowns and frowns. Sometimes Oliver frowns so much that it's hard to tell what they really mean. This frown doesn't seem angry though, well, not at me at least. I reach forward and grab his beanie, handing it to him.

"Thanks," he hiccups, slipping it on.

Then Oliver rests his head on my shoulder. At first I get uncomfortable, but then something soothes inside of me, comforted by Oliver's gesture in a way I can't begin to explain. I relax, resting my cheek on the top of his head. And I think he's falling asleep. "Oliver?"

He inhales, lifting his head, and he looks at me, then, without even thinking about what I'm doing, I'm leaning closer, and it amazes me that Oliver does too, and our foreheads touch, press. I close my eyes, miserable and warm and comfortable all at once.

Should I feel like this? Are guys supposed to do this?

The confliction is nauseating, battling with myself the same way I have been for months, only it's worse now, or better, no, it's just _more _now. More intense. More desperate. I don't want to move away. I just want to be here, sat on a wet shower room floor, my shoulder pressed to his, listening to the rhythmical _drip-drip-drip _from the taps, here for him – for Oliver. He's family now. Has been for months. And, I know it's the dumbest thing to think but I have never cared about someone like I care about Oliver. And not in a lame, _You mean a lot to me and I care about you,_ kind of way either. It's more than that, so much more that it confuses me so badly I just do my best to ignore it most of the time, because I don't understand it enough to explain the way I feel. All I know for sure is that I want to be here for him, and I want him to stop hurting.

Even so, it's me who rolls my head away from him, standing up, putting an end to the intimate moment. Oliver watches me, sitting up a little more against the wall. Until he looks away and sighs. "I'm so tired."

"Yeah," I whisper, helping him to stand. "C'mon, you can sleep in my cell."

"I don't wanna sleep yet."

I nod, "I get it."

"I... I wanna," Oliver fumbles, wincing and nodding all at once. He has to wipe his eyes. "I wanna do something for him."

"Like something for his grave?" I ask softly, and he nods, "Okay. Go wait in the common room. I'll be back in a minute."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

I've taken a seat on the floor, leaning against the bottom of the staircase that lead up to the security deck. My legs are spread out in front of me, staring. Staring at nothing. Feeling nothing. Numb. After my parents dying right at the beginning it's just been Patrick and I, alone together. _We fight the dead and fear the living,_ he said to me once. It's how we survived. We stayed together, after everything we say – everybody we met, the ones we watched die, lost, never saw again. The ones we avoided and ran away from. It was Patrick and I, always. But now he's dead. Like the rest of them, and just like everyone else soon, including me. I think of Carl. I think about what he said. I have to remember this pain. I have to remember how it feels. And I can't let it destroy me.

Something bites my palms, and I look down at them. _Why do they hurt?_ I open them and hold them in front of my face, staring at the four, small, lined up punctures across each palm. _**I don't think you should squeeze your hands anymore, Oliver.**_ I'm shaking, so I drop my hands. "Sorry," I whisper to myself. "I'm sorry."

Carl comes back, planks of wood and a tool box under his arm. I fall quiet, putting my hands in my pockets so that he doesn't see the cuts. He watches me, and when I don't look back he crouches down opposite me, setting the equipment down between us. I have to look away and fight back more tears, though, after a little while, I coax myself to help, sitting forward. _**Wait, what's he making? **__Oh..._

"Carl."

He looks up at me from the cross he's building, binding the two thin, long, wooden planks together. "Yeah?"

"Patrick isn't-" I stop, realising I'm about to use the wrong tense. It hurts so bad I have to take a breath to dull it. "Patrick wasn't a Catholic."

* * *

"_Dude," he whispered. "Happy birthday."_

_It was over a year ago. My fourteenth started off pretty shittily. Aside from the whole apocalypse thing, I was sick with a cold. I'd been hibernating in bed all day. __By 'hibernating' I mean 'coughing and sneezing while trying to get a few minutes shut eye and failing', and by 'in bed', I mean 'on the cold floor of a laundry __place with a mouldy blanket as a mattress and another mouldy blanket wrapped around me'. It was doing nothing for my asthma and I was fairly sure that I was dying, but it was all we had. He shook my shoulder._

"_Go away, Pat."_

"_I've been gone all day and you don't even have a 'hello' for me?" he asked._

"_Hello," I grumbled, sniffing through my swollen sinuses._

"_Dude, come on. It's gotta be around September thirtieth now, right? So happy birthday, Oliver."_

"_I'm dying."_

"_Yeah," he said, "but you're not dead _yet_." _

_I sat up, glared at him, wiping my nose on the blanket. "What do you – whoa, you got me something?" I perked up when I saw the small brown package hiding behind him. Patrick smiled, pushing the oddly shaped present into my lap. "What is it?"_

"_Open it."_

_I did, with a vengeance, suddenly not feeling so much like I was dying anymore, taring into the packaging until it was shredded and lying in flaky shards around us. My face fell. "Oh. You got me inhalers. Thanks, and some cold medicine." I was grateful. Really, I was. But there was still something disappointing. Something that made me realise that my birthdays would never be like they used to be. No chocolate cake, useless presents and Italian birthday songs. "Thanks, Pat. Means a lot."_

_Patrick scoffed. "That's not all I got you, idiot."_

_I frowned, then I looked back into the package, spotting something flat and colourful. "_No..._" I gasped, clasping my hand to my mouth, mumbling hysterically into my palm. "no way. You found a comic?! Oh, man!" I grinned madly. "But you said we shouldn't take anything we don't need anymore." _

_God, I was so grateful I didn't know what to do with myself._

"_I thought you'd get done reading it before tomorrow," he said, pushing his glasses up his nose, "so by the time you're better we'll leave it here anyway."_

"_Thankyouthankyouthankyou."_

"_I got more food, too. We can have something special tonight. A meal."_

"_Really?"_

"_Yup," Patrick grinned proudly._

"_Awesome!" _

_That day was the first time Patrick had done a run without me since we left home. We both knew that I was too weak, evident that despite how worried for him I was I still managed to pass out again. I knew he was having his own silent celebration. His success was sort of like a right of passage for him. A chance for him to prove to himself that he was capable to survive._

"_Nice work by the way. Thought you'd be biter-bait for sure," I joked. Pat rolled his eyes. "Was there any trouble out there?"_

_He shrugged. "There were a few guard dogs in the drugs store. But I set up a fire outside – drew them out. Quick and easy."_

"_Smart," I said, knowing there would've been a lot more adrenaline and fear involved. But I was still proud of him._

"_So," he began, and drew his jaw out so far he looked like an alien. It made me both amused and self-conscious of my own under-bite. "How does it feel to be fourteen?"_

_I shrugged, sniffing, coughing. "Feels like I can't breathe through my nose."_

_Patrick laughed, then he got up and fetched me a bottle of water, "Here, take your medicine."__I did. The tablets and the inhaler. Asthma sucked especially hard when I was sick. Actually, it sucked all the time. "Read your comic," he said, "I'll start on supper."_

_I didn't hesitate, and I was almost half way through by the time Patrick whistled to get my attention. It was beginning to get dark, and my eyes were straining to read anyway so it wasn't too torturous to put down the graphic novel. The laundry lace was boarded – the person who did it put a bullet through his head and left a suicide note that said _'Feel free to take the laundry powder.' _His corps was still in the back. Patrick and I hadn't gone in there since we found him. But anyway, the place was clear when we broke in aside from the corpse, and it had been our safe base for a few days now. The fact that there was a dead body inside didn't freak me out nearly as much anymore. And, in all, it was actually quite cosy. There were blankets and clothes everywhere to sleep on so it was a pretty nice deal compared to places we'd stayed before._

_I got up, looked for him. There were rows of washing machines separating the large room into four sections. Patrick was sat on top of a row of washing machines a few isles to my right, a small bin in front of him up there with bright orange flames crackling inside heating the food he was preparing. He served up our meal into two bowls._

"_We're using bowls?" I asked once I'd climbed up, wrapping the blanket I had around me better. _

_Patrick nodded, focussing on serving. "Yeah, we've been eating out of cans since we left home. Thought we'd change that for your birthday." _

_It was true, the last time I ate from a plate or bowl was three months before, but I hardly cared. It was food. _

"_Hand me that cardboard box?"_

_I grabbed it from the floor, lifting it awkwardly with my foot. It was empty. "What do you need it for?"_

"_It's our table."_

_I scoffed, "Our _table_?"_

_The washing machines, all rowed up like they were, were a wide enough surface for both of us to make a dining area on top of. So he set up the small cardboard box on the surface, sitting cross legged with the fire beside the 'table' for light. He growled at me for sneezing twice in a row. _

"_Smells good," I said once he'd forgiven me, "What is it?"_

"_Tonight: the canned macaroni and cheese you found under the cash machine and some canned vegetables. Here." He set my bowl on the box, a fork beside it. It was pointless saying 'canned' before the name of the food, as everything we ate was canned – force of habit I guess._

_I was practically drooling. We hadn't found this much food in forever, living off of a can or jar of something between the both of us every day at the most for weeks, so I was all too eager to stuff my face until I blew up._

"_Wait," Patrick said, grabbing my hand. Macaroni splashed back into my bowl._

"_What?" I asked, only mildly furious._

"_Let's say grace."_

_I scoffed, not even bothering to give him a verbal response._

"_I'm serious," he insisted._

_I dropped my hand, letting the fork clatter onto the bowl. "Why? We're not even religious."_

"_Manners?" Patrick seemed to ask. _

"_In case you hadn't noticed," I started sarcastically, "the end of the world isn't really the place for manners. And, I mean, look, we're already using forks, and _real_ bowls. Isn't that enough?"_

_He shook his head, "It's what Mom would want."_

"_Mom never forced her religion on us," – and Mom wouldn't have wanted us to leave her and Dad's living-corps in their bedroom either. I held my tongue, knowing that if I said that then Patrick would never forgive me. Even if I didn't actually blame him. He still blamed himself. Then I rolled my eyes, relenting, crossing my arms and resting my elbows on the cardboard table._

_Patrick reached forward, taking my fork from my bowl and placing it beside it neatly. Then he took my hands and tugged me to sit up properly._

"_Hey!" _

"_D__o it properly."_

"Fine_!" I hissed, linking our hands and letting them rest on either side of the box. Patrick closed his eyes. I cocked an eyebrow. _

"_Oliver, I know you're still looking at me."_

"_Goddamn," I huffed incredulously._

"_That's not the point of saying grace, dude."_

"_That's funny."_

"_There's no time for funny anymore," Patrick tried to be wise._

"_There's no time for saying grace, either."_

"_Shut your trap and close your eyes!"_

_I frowned, wondering how he knew I hadn't yet. But I sighed and did as I was told, not even trying to stop the snide, "This is stupid," from leaving my mouth._

"_Then I'll do it," Patrick said quietly, his voice gentle and encouraging for a reason I couldn't figure out. "You just sit still and stay quiet for a minute." I couldn't take it seriously. "Dear Lord," Patrick started. "Th-"_

"Dear Lord,_" I couldn't resist._

"_Shut up!"__He hissed, yanking._

"_Ouch! __Alright, alright. Sorry."_

_Patrick took a breath. I thought about how hungry I was._

"_Dear Lord. Thank you for the meal we have before us. Um, please keep watching over us...? Uh, um."_

_I was frowning then, suddenly angry, feeling a horrible resentment burrowing deep into my chest, like fire. Patrick's hands loosened, so I let go and opened my eyes. I saw him, and he looked just as disgruntled as I was. _

"_You're right," he said under his breath, looking away, his cheeks heated up, "this is stupid."_

_We ate our meal without another word._

_The thing was. It wasn't God who got us our meal that night. It was us; Patrick and I, looting corner stores like beggars. And it wasn't the Lord keeping watch over us. It was us. Hiding like rats and killing the dead in a world that He was said to have created with the love and passion He had for us. But it was just us. Two orphan brothers in the middle of the apocalypse. Scared of the whole world and trying to survive it. For what? So that we can eat a can of something disgusting every night, if we were lucky, and then thank someone for it who had no part in it what so ever?_

_When we were done we found a corner of the room that was dry enough and piled blankets and duvets there. Patrick was exhausted and I was aching and ill, and we curled up in our cocoon of blankets, wrapping as much of the thick, warmth around ourselves as we could. It was probably the cosiest bed I'd been in since home. _

"_Night, Pat," I mumbled as I began to drift off._

"_Night," he said. "Happy birthday." A long pause. "And from here on out I'm identifying as a practising Atheist."_

* * *

Carl stares at me, and I watch the same frustration Patrick bore on that night make its way across his fair and freckled features, and I purse my lips apologetically. So he looks at the cross again, quickly snaps the wooden pieces apart with a hollow _clack._

"Sorry, man."

He sighs, shrugs, moves to sit against the wall. "I didn't know."

I lean back and sit with him. I'm not expecting him to move closer, pressing our shoulders, tilting his head the littlest bit so that I can feel his hair against mine. "Yeah," I whisper, sighing. Just then, we look up when we hear someone making their way down the steps.

"I'm sorry about your brother," she tells me, and I nod because I have no idea how you're supposed to respond to something like that, and then I'm looking away from her, feeling tears prickle at the back of my eyes. _Why do people feel like they need to apologise? __**It's a pointless social gesture – I'll apologise and everything will be better, yeah, right.**__ Carl didn't apologise. __**That's because Carl gets it.**_ I've learnt that Carl isn't one for wasting his words. I remember reading something once, I don't remember where or when or why, but Carl reminds me of it:

"_Wise men talk because they have something to say;_

_Fools, because they have to say something."_

It's only then that I realise how thick the tension is between the two people in with me. Carl ignores her, completely, and Carol's watching him, stood by the bench, fiddling with something on it. "Did you tell your dad what you saw in the library yesterday?"

"Nope," he says.

"Will you tell him?" she asks, and Carl doesn't say anything – doesn't even look at her, so she steps forward, glancing at me for the shortest second. "I have to keep teaching those kids to survive. You know that."

Carl looks at me, studying my expression. I try to stop my eyebrows from furrowing, but Carl already knows I think Carol should do this. But, I also know that Carl thinks she should, too. He sighs and brings his knee up to his chest, resting his arm on it, glancing at her. "Did you tell their parents?"

"No."

Carl looks at her now. "Are you gonna tell'm?"

My eyes shift between the two, observing their silent communication. Until Carol talks aloud. "If I do. Maybe after this they'll understand, but maybe they wont. But I don't wanna take that risk."

"Then that's between you and them," Carl says, and I frown at him, watching him gather the cross equipment up.

Carol changes strategy: negotiation, sitting down at the bench and leaning forward to get his attention. "No. It's between us." She looks at me, then back to Carl, and he turns to look at her. "If you tell your Dad he'll tell them, and like I said, maybe they'll understand, maybe they won't."

"I don't wanna lie to my dad."

"I'm not asking you to lie. I'm asking you not to say anything." Carl looks at the floor, sighs, and continues to gathering the equipment. It wasn't a vocal response, but even I can read his body language; he has to tell him. Rick's his father.

Beth starts singing. Judith was crying a while ago so Beth's probably trying to put her down again. Carol glances glumly at the floor, and without another word she stands, brushes herself off, and leaves the cell block. Carl gathers everything, the planks of wood under one arm and the tool box under the other, before finally turning to me.

"I'm gonna go find him," he says. "I... I think he should let her keep teaching you guys. I-I just wanted you to know."

I try to smile, but it turns into more of a nod. "Catch you later, young sir."

* * *

"Psst."

I snap my head up, spotting the Korean man peering into the cell block. "Glenn?"

"I gotta talk to you. But I can't come in – don't wanna get anyone sick." I nod, cracking my knees as I stand and holding back a wince. _Damn, that hurt. _Ignoring the aches, I walk over, and he steps away from it, letting me follow him off the steps. "Here," he says. I frown, confused, but then I notice something in his hand.

_Oh..._  
_Patrick's glasses._

"They're clean now, just thought you'd want 'em back," Glenn glances away, giving me a moment to compose myself. Because my chin is trembling and my eyes are streaming and my heart is breaking and my brother just died. "I'm sorry, man. He was a good kid."

I sniff, wipe my face on the collar of my T-shirt, thinking of everything I didn't do, and should've done. _**Deep breath. Talk. **_"What's gonna happen to him?"

Glenn clears his throat. "We're gonna gather all of the bodies tonight, bury them in the morning."

"I'll help."

Glenn shifts his weight on his heels. "Not today. I got the bodies for now. You need to rest. Give me a hand to bury him in the morning, alright?"

I want to argue. But I know that my eyes are red and carrying dark circles under them, and I know that I'm completely drained. Emotionally and physically. So I nod. "Yes, sir."

A small, empathetic smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "We had to clear the cells earlier," he says, "to make sure no one was still in there... I found you're horde." A pause, and I stare at him. "The books under your bed."

I dip my head, honestly finding it hard to feel concerned about this after everything that's happened. But I nod. "Sorry. I was gonna take them back. I swear." He might be mad, but by the way he shakes his head and smiles I don't think so.

"It's cool, man," he says, clearing his throat again. "I didn't tell anybody. I left them inside D-Block supply closet you can get them when you're ready. But, you gotta take them back, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

Glenn nods, doing that strange throat clearing again. "Alright... See you later man." If he wasn't possibly at risk of spreading the illness he'd give me a comforting pat on the shoulder or something. But he doesn't, so I watch him walk back over to the main building, heading off to another council meeting or something most likely. I sit on the step for a while, rolling my brother's glasses in my hands, running my thumb over the smooth, black plastic. I sniff and wipe my face on my shoulder. When I look up again I spot Carl making his way over. Behind him in the paddocks, I see Rick down there burning the pig pen, and he is shirtless for some reason. Taking a guess from the circumstances, I'd say he's had to destroy his shirt because it's contaminated.

Carl smiles when he sees me and I realise that he's wearing his holster and that it is stocked with his gun, despite my sadness a smile spreads over my lips at the sight of him. I appreciate that Carl can do that for me.

"Hey," he says, sitting next to me. He notices the glasses in my hand, purses his lips. "Someone give'm to you?"

"Glenn," I answer, then say, "Your Dad give it back to you?"

"Yeah," Carl pats his full holster. I wonder for a moment if I should ask if Rick'll let me have my machete back, too, but I don't say anything, choosing to leave the subject for now.

"He trusts you again," I say.

Carl smiles down at the floor. "Yeah."

"Listen, can you help me with something?"

"Sure. What?"

"I... I've kind of been keeping some books under my bed. For a while. And, well, Glenn found them earlier and he's put them in the D-Block supply closet for me to get. I gotta go and put them back in the library, but... uh, there's quite a lot in there." Carl gives me the most patronising, knowing smirk. I roll my eyes, "Come on, man... please?"

"Yeah. I'll help," he reassures me, "uh... how many books are in there?"

_Around thirty or forty,_ is what I should tell him. "Uh...I don't know an exact number."

"Mhm," he mumbles, completely unconvinced. But he stands up. "We'll do it tomorrow though. You're exhausted. I'll take the top bunk."

"No, I'm fine. I can wait until later."

Carl stares at me, examining my tired facial features. "Oliver."

_Shit._

"You can't act like you're fine all the time," he says. "I know you could wait until later if you had to. But you don't."

I stare at him, astounded by how well he seems to know me. It's a little scary to be honest. But the sheer amount in which Carl seems to care about me and his genuine concern for my well-being is enough to bring more tears to my eyes. _**Jesus, Oliver, how many more tears do you have?! **_I'm nodding now, resisting the sudden urge to wrap every limb I own around him, looking away from him. But Carl steps forward and puts his hand on my shoulder, and then I've taken his hand, and for a second I'm just gripping it against my shoulder, and then I'm liking our fingers, wiping my face with my other hand. Carl watches this happen – lets it happen, and in the end he simply pulls, gently and carefully leading the way into the cell block.

"C'mon, Oliver."

He doesn't let go, not even when we get inside inside his cell, not even when I take a seat on his cot. I get to thinking about what I have left now. I make a list in my head:

_1\. The Prison.  
2\. A heartbeat.  
3\. A bed to sleep in.  
4\. My machete (somewhere).  
5\. Everybody here._

And despite losing my brother today I know I still have more people than I need who still truly care about me, and I have more love and compassion for them all than I can ever put into words. They are my family. They have been for a long time.

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Pretty much as soon as Oliver's head hit my pillow he was out like a light. When he fell asleep, I headed to Dad's cell. There was something I didn't tell Oliver earlier. Dad wants me to give him his machete back and I thought that I could surprise him, to cheer him up a little. So I took Oliver's machete from behind Dad's bedside table, wiped off the thick layer of dust away from the blade and red handle, and left it propped against the wall next to him.

All he's got is Patrick's glasses and the clothes he was wearing –as right now he's borrowing my clothes since we're just about the same size except the few centimetres Oliver has on me in height, but he hasn't complained. He's taken to sleeping with the glasses tucked under his cheek, and I thought about putting them on the bedside for him, but I chose against it, leaving them. He'll be broken for a while, just like I was when Mom died. But I'll be here for him, just like everyone was for me, and, I know it won't make it okay, but it'll at least make it more bearable. Jesus. Oliver's right, I am a sap. I shake my head, and then I'm leaning down to him, gently pulling off his beanie and setting it on my bedside table. Then I turn back to him, pull his blanket up a little. Yep, biggest sap in the world.

It's starting to get dark, and in the same moment I decide to get ready for bed I hear someone return to the cell block. He stands outside of my doorway when he sees me kind of stood in the middle of my cell, and he's careful not to walk in or come too close.

"You two okay?" he asks quietly.

I nod, turning to him, noticing the blood dripping from his right hand. "What happened?" I whisper, careful not to wake Oliver.

Dad examines his hand and tries to flex his fingers but it must hurt too much because he stops. "It's fine, I'll get Hershel to look at it. Go to sleep now, Carl."

Then he's gone.

I'm looking at the floor, tired and drained, "Night, Dad."

* * *

**Notes**

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_


	8. Isolation, Part 1: Light Reading

**Oliver's POV**

"_Dude, they're stale," Patrick grimaces, a packet of M&amp;M's in his hand. _

"_So?" I scoff, snatching them from him. "There's nothing better around here – hey, they're empty." _

**Wait, that's not what happened... **_I look around, frowning, recognising the candy store from all those months ago. _Then what did happen? **I don't remember... **_I ignore my confusion before it worries me, leaving the empty packet of M&amp;M's on the shelf, only to realise that it was actually a heart. It startles me, and I look closer when I see a label tied to it: _Violet's heart._ It freaks me out, though, I stop questioning it a moment later anyway, turning to Patrick._

_"What's the plan?" I ask curiously._

"_I don't know yet," my brother shrugs, "we have to find you more books."_

_It's only then that I realise we're in a library now. Though, along the shelves are more hearts of all shapes and sizes. I shiver, then turn back to my brother. "Why?" I ask, swallowing, and I can smell the blood, watching it drip from the shelves, pooling on the floor. "Why do we need books?"_

"_For your cell."_

"_Pat, we don't live at the Prison yet," I remind him._

_Patrick dismisses my remark with a wave over his shoulder, and he starts walking through the isle. Overhead, a sign says: _'All of them.' **Don't look. **_I dip my head and follow him, nervous and uncomfortable. _**What're we doing here? Why do we need to be in a heart library? **_My train of thought stops when I hear a heavy thud ahead of me, along with soft, slaps and smacks of small objects splattering across the floor. I spin around, gasping. Patrick's collapsed._

_"Pat!" _

_I kick hearts across the floor as I rush to him, ignoring the names I recognise on them: _Rosa, Isla, Tylor, Debbie, Zane, Penelope, Drippy_, and I grab him, desperately pulling him over onto his back. But I shriek, clasping my hands to my mouth to stifle my scream as I see the thick, crimson blood, oozing from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth, spilling and pulsating._

_Like if you shake a soda can and pop the top…_

_It's on my hands. It's on my face. I stumble backwards, gasping for air. Then, right before my eyes, Patrick's shirt tares right down the middle. Something I cannot see draws a long, deep 'Y' shaped incision on his sternum, and the skin is pulled back, exposing his insides. Then, with a loud crack, his ribcage shatters, crushing and disintegrating from an invisible attack, and his lungs are pulled apart, then, his heart rises from his chest, levitating before me. It beats, slower and slower, until it suddenly convulses, jerking and spluttering over itself until it stops all together. Dead. Something yanks it, and with a spurt of blood my brother is heartless, and around one of the organ's arteries is tied a small parchment on a string, and the word _Patrick _is scrawled. _

_It moves to a shelf beside us, dropped there with a wet splatter. I don't know how long I stare at it, horrified, but my skin crawls when I hear the groan rumbling from the dead corpse in front of me, and Patrick rouses from his fatal slumber. All I do is watch. And soon his eyes open, revealing glazed over, bloodshot orbs that were once brown and living. He sees me, he sits up, reaches out, tensing and snapping his jaw._

_"N-no, p-please?! Pl-please!" He lunges, and my arms come up reflexively, grabbing his shoulders. But he shoves at me, growling and shrieking and clawing into my skin, infected nails burning, contaminating. "Pat!" I scream, the sobs shaking me. "P-please! Stop!"_

_"IT'S…  
YOUR…  
FAULT!" _

_"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"_

"_YOU...  
DESERVE...  
THIS!"_

_I stare, and he snaps his teeth, spits blood. "I'm sorry..."_

_So I give him what he wants, and his teeth rip into me, yanking out jugular and windpipe, devouring them – devouring _me, _and the last thing I see is my brother's satisfied glare as he begins his meal._

* * *

I sit bolt upright, gasping for air, choking, terrorised. Sweat soaks my skin and sheets, and tears stream down my face. I try to apologise again, wanting to scream it, but I gag on air I can't catch, crying hysterically. But I'm wheezing, gasp for breath, failing to collect any. _**Get your inhaler!**_ But when I reach out to the bedside I fail to find my medication, and I fall out of the bed, coughing and spluttering.

"Oliver!"

I reach out to him, but Carl jumps back, covering his mouth. I'm wheezing, sweating, gagging, and I know how it looks. I know I look like I'm sick, too. But I'm not. I know this feeling. I beg him, unable to get the words out properly, but when I reach out again he's taken my hand anyway, lacing our fingers.

"We gotta get you to Doctor. S," he says, and he's crying.

I shake my head, "N-no. Asth–" A splutter. "–asthma at-attack. My inhaler." A cough. "I ne–" Another wave of tears. "–need it."

He looks so afraid, wincing and staring and panicking "O-okay," he says, collecting himself. "I'll go get one. I'll be right back, just stay calm. I'll be right back, Oliver."

I try to thank him but my lungs won't allow it. So I nod, gasping, leaning forward in an attempt to ease my breathing, but it doesn't help and soon I become so breathless that I have ot lie down on the floor. _**Calm down. **__I can't. __**You know how this works. **__I need air! __**You know how this works. Just calm down. **__I can't. Please. I'm suffocating! __**In through the nose and out through the mouth. Calm. **__I'm dying. __**Shh.**_

"Dad! C-Carol!"

"Carl! What is it!?" I hear running, the sound of palms slapping against cell bars.

"No! Dad! N-no! I-It's Oliver. He's having an asthma attack, just… just stay with him!"

* * *

**Carl's POV**

I'm running, pumping with adrenaline, sprinting as fast as my legs will carry me towards the infirmary. I don't know much about asthma –only what Oliver's told me. I should've made him explain more. I rocket through the infirmary doors with a loud _slam!_, pretty sure I've woken up the entire State by now. I search drawers frantically:

Nothing…  
Shit…  
Oh! Where is it?  
Who needs bubble bath anymore!  
No, no, no, come on…  
Please! Where is it?  
There's none here!

"Dammit!" Frustrated tears well in my eyes, panicking. I stumble to the ice-cold floor in my rush to cross the room. But I scramble to my feet, ignoring my throbbing knee.

Come on, come on…  
Nothing!  
Please?  
No!

THERE!

Relief tramples me like a herd of walkers, only to be clouded over with confusion. I rummage through the array of inhalers: a few brown ones, greens, blues, reds. Which do I take?!

I wince in frustration, fumbling with them, only ever recalling Oliver use a blue one. But what if he needs any of the others? In the end, after dropping most of them, I just grab one of each colour and hurtle back out of the infirmary, sprinting faster than I'm able back to C-Block, crossing the courtyard, tripping over myself, but I don't slow down. The fences sway and jangle from the walkers in the distance, barely audible over the blood pounding in my ears. But I ignore them, _runningrunningrunning, _bare feet blistering. In my hurry I don't notice Beth sprinting towards me. I'm running so fast I almost run right into her.

"Did you get 'em?"

"Yeah!" I don't stop running, hurtling around her. "C'mon!"

"Carl! Carl, calm down!"

I crash into the cell block, finding Dad stood outside my cell looking down at -presumably- Oliver, his un-shaven face tight with worry. I push past him, freezing when I see inside. Oliver lies on his side, barely conscious, sprawled across the floor with his eyes drooped and mouth open, exhausted. He tries to rouse but Carol coos in his ear and strokes his shoulder to calm him. Hershel sits beside them holding a respirator. I don't hesitate to hand the inhalers over.

"I-is he gonna be okay? W-what's happening to him?" Oliver struggles to move his head to look at me, and my shoulders hunch in fear.

"Carl," Hershel says, "you need to stand back. Let Carol help'm. You've done your bit, let her do hers." I shake my head. "We all got jobs to do, boy."

I look at the respirator in his hands and gulp, but step back. My Dad puts his hand on my shoulder.

"I'm fhuh." Oliver tries, but he's too short of breath.

Carol shushes him, "Oliver? Oliver, I'm gonna need you to sit forward, can you do that?" Oliver barely manages a nod. "Alright, good," she reassures him, helping to pull, tipping his shoulders forward to help –just like he did for me once.

She shakes a blue inhaler and brings it to his lips, having to hold his face up with a hand under his chin from how weak he is. The grey tint in his skin from the lack of oxygen makes me wince, hearing him inhale, barely able to. Carol gives him another dose, and Oliver does his best to take it, wheezing loudly, his windpipe protesting to the help, and it takes a few moments for him to relax, but finally, the medication does what it's suppose to, so he lies down on the floor again, finally breathing almost normally. I lean against my wall, resting my head in my hands, dizzy.

Dad pats me on the back. "Well done, son."

I'm too relieved and exhausted to look up to him so I just nod, drawing in deep breaths, appreciating the constant ease of air that I have after that. I just wish that Oliver could say the same. Soon, they all leave to go back to sleep for the few hours we have left until the morning. Dad calls out to the few other people in the cell block who'd woken, saying that Oliver's okay and they should all go beck to sleep.

"Let's get you back into bed," Carol tells the boy. "You gonna be alright?" He nods, sitting on the bottom bunk.

"Bet you're glad I took the top bunk now, huh?" I say, and Oliver sighs, raises his brow, nodding sarcastically.

"You two alright?" Carol asks us, and I nod.

"Yes, ma'am," Oliver says, regaining his composure again, swallowing the Ventolin taste away. I can't blame him, he let me try a puff of it a few days ago. It made me gag.

Carol looks at me, "If he starts wheezing again you need to come get me straight away. We don't know whether the attack was caused by an early symptom."

"Promise."

"Oliver." She watches him. Watches and watches and watches, and her brow is arched and devastated. I'm not really sure why. "Keep your Ventolin on you, all the time, you can't forget it, not ever."

"Yes, ma'am."

It's more arched eyebrows, and then she's gone. I watch Oliver breathe, counting them, _one, two, three, four, _and they're steady and slow and controlled, in through his nose and out through his mouth.

"It isn't the sickness," he whispers to me, looking up. "Swear to God."

I purse my lips, a little relieved of how sure he is with his statement actually, "Thought you didn't believe in God."

"Neither do you."

I neither confirm or deny it. "What triggered it then?" I ask instead.

Oliver looks to the floor, frowning, "Nightmare… stress induced, you know?"

I chew my lip. "Must've been bad to almost suffocate you." He sighs, miserable, so I sit beside him, fiddling with my hands. "You're okay now though?"

He doesn't reply, just reaches, placing his hand over mine, and he watches me for a moment, studying my expression, which I know is still a little tense from concern. So I look at him, too, watching the golden flecks in his irises, aware of the butterflies. My hand twists, slowly and carefully, and Oliver looks at them, witnessing the dubious entwinement.

"W-what was your nightmare?" I ask then, forcing my mind to stop what it's thinking, change the topic, _don't don't don't_.

He breaks our eye contact, suddenly, frowning at the floor, unlinking our hands and rubbing his eyes. "It doesn't matter."

I take a breath, having to hold it a second, and then I climb up to the top bunk again, burying myself under my cold blankets. It's a while before I hear anything. . .

"Carl?"

It startles me, thinking he's struggling again, but his voice is relaxed and quiet – _Oliver_. So I relax again. "Yeah."

"Thanks for earlier, man."

"You're welcome... _man._" I'm teasing him, but in truth, I like it when he calls me that.

I pull my hand out from under my blanket and let it fall over the side of the bed, hanging loosely beneath me. I don't think I'm doing it for any reason in particular, but I slowly realise that there's a small part of me that wishes Oliver would take it again. I don't expect him to, and I just play off the gesture as casual laziness. But to my complete awe, Oliver reciprocates, each digit touching the end of my fingertips. Butterflies erupt in my stomach, and he squeezes my fingers between his own, then lets go, and I draw my hand back up to my chest.

"I'm sorry that I'm in like with you," I say, only it comes out as, "G'night."

"I'm sorry you are, too," he says back, but it sounds more like, "Night, Carl."

* * *

I wake to silence –no Dad telling me to do my chores. No wheezing or coughing from Oliver. My eyes simply open, and my hand comes up to rub away the sleep. When I lean over I find the bottom bunk empty.

"Oliver?" My cell stays silent and I sit up quickly, worrying, thinking about what happened to Oliver last night. "Oliver?" No answer so I climb down and lean out of my cell, seeing Beth cooing to Judith on the floor a few cells down, a safe distance away. "Hey, where's Oliver? And, everyone else?"

Beth dips her head, kissing Judith's cheek, "Oliver's in the graveyard," she mumbles into the infant's ear to me. "Everyone else's preparin' for a run to get medicine at a veterinary hospital – your Dad's not goin'." Judith reaches out for me, babbling excitedly and expecting me to greet her like I do every day. I step closer. "Don't. Five more people got sick yesterday." A pause, and I stop, nod, back away, swallow the lump from my throat. "Carl?" Beth adds and I look a her. "Karen and David. They were killed last night."

My face drops. "Killed?"

"Ty found'm burnt, over in the courtyard behind D-Block."

"Do they know who did it?"

"No." There's still a murderer running around then. Without another word I go back into my cell, scowling, processing everything. I dress quickly and brush my teeth. I notice that my green T-shirt and denim jacket are gone –Oliver's using them. His machete's still propped against the wall though so I guess he didn't see it. I buckle on my holster around my waist and right leg, checking that my gun's loaded and the safety's on, before heading out of the cell block, heading to the graveyard first.

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

The sun's too hot. The ground is too hard. And my brother is too dead. We dig three graves, and I've just finished refilling Patrick's grave, smoothing over the mound with my spade, carefully and obsessively flattening out every grain of earth. I do well to get on with my task without crying, but it's when I finally finish, glancing over at his glasses hanging from the post on a small nail opposite me, that I do crack a little. But I do it silently, walking over to them, readjusting the bandanna more comfortably around my mouth both for protection and to hide my expression, before taking the sentimental object from the post. Maggie and Glenn exchange saddened looks with each other as they proceed with the other graves. Along with the increasing number of people getting sick and the two murders last night, me crying won't help, so I try hard to keep it together, blocking out the hole in my gut.

I pick up the stone slab that's propped against the dead tree –I found the unusually large and flat rock by the fence closest to the creek, I've seen it there for months, just lying outside of the prison beside the running water, so Carol was humane enough to go and collect it for me. Since my brother wasn't religious in anyway, this was the nicest thing I could find for him. I wanted something ageless. Something timeless. Something that's seen everything and is still here today. Something constant. To stay with him. I figured a rock suits that description better than anything anymore. I leave his glasses wedged just next to the stone slab, securely held between the earth and rock.

"Bye, Pat," I mumble. Guilt pangs so I look up to the sky, taking deep breaths to stop my tears. "I'm sorry."

"It's not on you."

"Oh." I startle, turning. "Carl." I didn't hear him come over. "Hey."

He watches me, and I try to watch him, too, but my head dips and the tears I was fighting so hard to keep back win with the aid of gravity and I have to take off my bandanna and gloves and quickly swat the wet away. _Fuck. _I coax my lips into a curve, tossing the gloves and bandanna to the side.

"Thanks, Oliver," Glenn tells me, and I nod to him.

"Carl," Maggie says. "Don't come too close, okay? Let Oliver wash up."

"I'll go shower," I turn to him, pursing my lips, glad that the excuse gives us a subject change. So I go, and Carl follows a little way behind, and it both relives me and makes me feel unbearably isolated. But I ignore it, showering, washing the clothes, too, and when I finish and I've changed and I'm clean again with a new set of clothes I don't stay in the cell block, I go outside, sitting in the empty kitchen courtyard, thinking and thinking and not wanting to but helpless against it.

So it's as I lose myself in thinking, blank and numb and hurting all at once, that Carl find me. He sits at the kitchen counter, the same place as always, only I'm inside the booth and he's on the outside now, opposite me. I'd been tapping my fingers against the counter, trampling a tiny coriander stem into the wood with my fingertips, so I look up at him.

He narrows his eyes. "You didn't come to my cell."

I shrug, "Sorry."

Then Carl squares up to me, sort of. He brings his elbows up onto the counter and slides them forward, resting his chest against the edge so that our faces are parallel, a four inch gap between our noses, though, unlike usual, I'm in no mood to take advantage of the closeness, and so my eyes train on the squashed coriander stem, and I tare it into five parts with my fingernails.

"What's up?" I ask nonchalantly.

His jaw clenches. "It wasn't on you."

"Carl, I'm fine."

He narrows his eyes again. Sometimes I can't tell why. He might just be squinting from the sun, or he might find me irritating. _**He could be reading your mind for all you know.**_ "It wasn't on you," he says again, and I look at him. "You need to know that."

_Yes it was._ I look away, gritting my teeth. _Patrick should have lived. If I'd just been a better brother. If I'd just noticed... I deserved what happened to me last night and it should have killed me. But _you_ saved me, and now I own you my life. You are the last thing I have now! You and the prison. You and our family here, and it terrifies me to death to think that you could die at any moment, too. _I wish Carl could understand this. I wish I had the freaking balls to say it. But, "I'm fine," is what comes out of me again, and I shrug, too, just to prove it.

"I know you're not," is all he whispers.

I look up at him, studying him. Carl has his demons, too. I only know the few things about that he's told me, like his mother died and he's seen people die right in front of him, much like I have, and we don't ask or push the subjects because we know that some things are best left to be told when we're ready to. But I see the way people talk to him. They way they behave around him, especially his original group. They respect him – talk to him like an adult and see him as no less either. The only person who seems to think of Carl as a kid is his father, and I know that hurts him the most. So I nod, swallowing my dry throat, "Come on. We should go get the books."

* * *

The medical run's getting ready to leave. They're taking Zach's car. He died on the run to Big Spot the day before last and I only found out this morning from Maggie. Beth must be devastated, although, she seemed alright when I saw her. _**It's easy to put up a front. You are.**_

Carl and I go the long way around to D-Block, through C-Block and past the boiler room, careful not to let anyone see us. We get to the big metal doors that once led the way to home. But I stop. Carl notices, turning back. "Oliver?"

I rub the back of my neck. _**Come on, Oliver, let's just do this. Everything'll be–**_

"Everything'll be okay."

I look at him, swallowing, nodding. . . "Okay."

We head down the corridor. The place is clean in this area, but we both know that just down the way blood and gore is all there is. I'm sure the whole place is crawling with the virus, too, but since my books weren't ever so much as touched my anyone other than me, Glenn figured that they should be okay. So Carl and I are careful not to touch anything; kicking open doors and using the hems of our shirts to turn on light switches or pull handles. _**Not exactly five star hygiene though.**_

"Here," I say, pointing to the supply closet when Carl walks past it. It occurs to me now that I actually know the inside of D-Block than he does. _This place really was home._ I pull the door open, and sure enough, my books– I mean, _the library's_ books are set neatly on the floor in the same wooden crate as always.

"Holy cow," Carl mumbles. "There's gotta be at least thirty." I look at him, not really sure if I want to thump him upside his head or just roll my eyes and get this over with. So I don neither, just watch him reach down and grab Under the Dome by Stephen King. It's so big he's holding it with both hands. "You know, there's this thing called light reading. Maybe you should try it some time."

I do smile then, only a little, but it feels good. Regardless, I snatch the one-thousand page novel from him, thumping him upside his head for it anyway. He grunts, and I'm not smiling as much anymore despite finding it funny. "That sarcasms gonna get you into trouble one day," I say, dropping the book back in the crate.

"Never stopped you."

I take a breath. It was supposed to be a laugh but I couldn't quite manage it, the constant reminder of where we are along with the faint smell of blood being enough to dampen our spirits again. So I step into the closet, Carl following.

"You take this side and I'll get the other," he says quietly, sensing my worsening mood.

"'Kay."

"One, two, three... _Grugh. _God. It's heavy." Turns out carrying half of a tree can be quite straining. So I simply grunt in agreement, and we make our way out of the closet, struggling to manoeuvre ourselves but managing. We are able to get to the library running into only one elderly man named Jeffrey, but he doesn't bat an eyelid at us so we just casually bid him good morning and continue on our way. But I notice him do that strange throat clearing thing as we pass, just like Glenn did. I exchange a worried look with Carl, but he shakes it off, "Keep going."

We arrive at the library and make good time putting all of the books back into their genres. Though, I'm reluctant to part with most of them, lingering the worst at the Horror section. Ironic, I know. I mean, don't we have enough of it already?

"Let it go, Oliver," Carl encourages-teases me. "They'll always be in here."

He's smirking, thinking, _Your quirk is ridiculous. _And I sigh, thumbing the spine of The Haunting of Hill House as it sits in its slot on the bookshelf in front of me, thinking, _Never let go _like the Titanic's just sank into the Atlantic ocean.

Carl –the door I imagine I'm sprawled across– picks the book up and takes his time to read the blurb, glancing at me through his eyelashes every few seconds. I expect him to put it back and make some snide comment about how weird I am, but to my shock he steps closer, reaches out, lifts the front of my shirt and pulls at the hem of my pants.

"Whoa! What're y– _nyah!_"

He's stuffing the paperback into the gap between my boxers and jeans, as if this kind of thing won't be at all surprising to me. I mean, not that I actually do anything to stop him. No, what I'm doing is trying my best to ignore the shiver that runs up my spine, shivering and shivering again even though the touch of his cold fingers against my hip is uncomfortable. I splay my hands out, suddenly considering what would happen if I reached out and wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him to the floor with me, but I sort of just stand there, jolting and awkward and frowning. For like three seconds, because that's how short a time this all takes despite me internally freaking out about it. So, in the end, he just lets go of me. For a second there's silence, and it's tense and buzzy in a way I'm not sure how to explain, like what I expect it's like to stick your face in a bees nest. Then he smiles, and it grows and grows and grows. . .

"Keep that one. Might manage to satisfy your book fetish."

_**Wait! What the fuck!?**_

"_Eurkm._" The noise is involuntarily, kind of if you mix a squeak and a scoff, and I swear to God in that moment I officially demote Batman himself. "I-I don't have a damn book fetish!" I rush to pull my shirt over the book, scowling. Carl just watches, smiling without really smiling, looking more pleased than anything, like he'd gotten the reaction he wanted. "How do you even know about that stuff?"

"There's more than just fiction and horror in this library you know," he tells me, stepping away again. I'm pretty sure that by _'more than just fiction and horror'_, Carl means _'erotic novels and porn found stashed some place in here by some of the old prisoners'_.

"Come on, man," I giggle like a child, taking his shoulder and pulling him to leave the library. _Having the book under my belt does actually make me feel a little better. __**I'm sure it does… **__Shut up! Not like that.__** Oliver, it's you who is thinking like this, and anyway, it's not a bad thing that you still have a crush on him.**_

"I don't!" I grumble aloud, clean slapping myself in the mouth when I realise it.

Carl startles, stares, "Wh–"

"Hey!" We both startle at Rick's southern bark behind us further down the corridor, and we spin around to face the irritated man. "Where the _hell _have you two been?" He marches towards us, stopping a few meters away as to not spread anything. His eyebrows lurch upward expectantly, our silence irritating him. "_Well…_"

"Uh, we've just been in the library," Carl says. I wonder if he'll tell about the books. But he chooses to leave that out, which I inwardly hug him for until he can't breathe, though outwardly I just glance at him for about a millisecond and then pull at my beanie.

"Boys..." Rick eyes us both up, narrowing his eyes. Rick narrows his eyes like Carl does –can't tell what it means. "I gotta talk to you." My stomach lurches anxiously. "The Council's decided to separate everyone who's vulnerable to the Office Blocks." I nod, knowing what he's asking. Most vulnerable means children and elderly, which, by default, means Carl and I.

"Uh, okay," Carl says, not catching on as quickly.

I nudge Carl's arm and he glances at me, raising his brow in intrigue, and to get him to understand all I have to mumble is, "Us, too, man."

That fucks him off. Bad. He turns to his father, his brow furrowing slowly and suddenly, "Are you kidding me?"

"Look," Rick pinches the bridge of his nose, "it's what's gotta be done. You're at risk. You're kids."

At the last word the two Grimes' turn to rock. Medusa herself wouldn't be a match for the barbarity that the word means to Carl. To him, kid means weak, vulnerable, useless.

"We are _not_ kids," Carl argues, gritting his teeth.

"I'm not giving you a choice," Rick glares, giving me a quick challenging glance, too, but upon realising that I'm not going to argue –given how completely startled I must look by their showdown– he looks back to his son. "Go pack your things."

Carl practically shivers in rage, until, without a word, he turns on his heel, though not before grabbing my hand and –fairly roughly– yanking me to go with him. I only just catch the inquisitive look from Rick as he sees this, but then Carl and I have turned around the corner.

* * *

**Notes**

Haha, I just realised that I have used quite a few 'in the closet' references during this story :)

_It's okay to be in the closet. Just as long as you remember to poke your head out every once in a while - _me, like, just now :D

Happy reading xx :_)_


	9. Isolation, Part 2: Just Oliver

**Carl's POV**

"Yeah. Your machete." He's sat on my chair, double taking, exhaling suddenly. "Surprise." I was hoping that this event would be a lot more cheerful, but I guess most things never really go to plan anymore. Regardless, a smile tugs at Oliver's lips.

I toss my holster on my bed, then quickly grab my orange duffel bag from underneath, quickly stuffing my hat into it. I slump onto the bed, grab my family photo and stuff it in, too, pausing, watching Oliver grip his machete like greeting an old friend. He looks up to me, smiles the littlest bit, meaning it. "Thank you, Carl."

He slips it between his belt and jeans, and I think about the book just beside it. Then I think about what else is– no, wait, never mind. "How do you keep it there without cutting your leg open?" I ask, averting my thoughts.

"I'm careful," Oliver says seriously, "but I can't even count how many belts I've sliced through. Once I took out a walker and didn't realise I'd cut my belt in the process, of, you know, pulling it out. My pants ended up dropping at the same time the walker did. Patrick didn't stop laughing for days..." he trails, scratches at his forehead, the sadness he'd been relieved from brought back like a hurricane. Dad's coming, and he stops in the cell entrance and leans on the bars, rubbing his neck.

"Can you hand me what's in there?" I mutter to Oliver, motioning to my bedside. Oliver opens the drawer and starts passing me its contents, aware of the bad tension in the air, visibly intimidated by it.

"It's for your own good," Dad tries, shifting his weight on his heels.

I don't look up to him. Instead I sigh and grab my family portrait, stuffing it into my bag. "I'm fine." I shove a pile of roughly folded clothes in, too. "I don't wanna be locked away with a bunch of kids."

"I need you in there," Dad insists, his forehead folding a thousand times over, "_both_ o' you. Keepin' an eye on Judith. On everybody else. Makin' sure they're safe."

I stand, resting a hand on my cot frame, and I watch him. But he doesn't relent. _Fine, _I think just as stubbornly. _But if we go we're going prepared. _So I reach down and take my gun, bobbing it in my hand before holstering it, watching him as I do. He looks around, shuffling his feet, concentrating.

"If anybody gets sick you let me know."

"What if they've already turned when I find them?" I ask dryly, slinging the duffel bag over my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye, only for a moment, Oliver looks down at the floor. I glance at him, guilty, scolding myself for being so harsh but too irritated to apologise.

"You don't fire it," Dad warns. "Unless you absolutely need to."

He can make me a Farmer. But he can't _just _make me a Farmer. This isn't about that anymore and he needs to accept it. He needs to accept _me. . . _And, in truth, so do I.

I step closer to him, mimicking the way hi dips his head, "But you _know_ I might need to, right?"

Dad stares, processing, until he nods. "G'on, boys."

* * *

Oliver stays quiet on the journey to the Office Block. It makes me wince. . . "Look, about what I said."

"It's fine," he says.

I don't know if it's because he's the worst liar in the world, or if it's just that I know him well enough now to be able to notice when he is, but I can tell he's lying. "I didn't think about," I try. "I… I just need him to understand."

"It's not that…"

My brow furrows, and my arm reaches out, fingertips touching his arm. But I stop, pocketing my hand, realising that physical contact between us has been increasing lately, further realising that it's always me who seems to initiate it, further _further _realising that I hate having my hands in pockets because in this moment pockets feel more like hand dungeons. "What's up?" I ask before I think about hand dungeons too much.

"I just," he starts, holding the Office Block doors open for me, re-phrasing when I walk through: "I don't want to have to do that – put anyone down if they turn. I-I will. If I have to. I just, really hope we don't have to." I watch him closely, feeling my brow arching. "Is... Is that okay, to feel like that?"

"Yeah," I say, meaning it. "I think so."

He gives me a nod, looking tired and sad and miserable. "C'mon, let's go find a room."

"I think you mean _office._"

"Better than a cell."

"No it's not," I say.

Oliver turns, purses his lips empathetically, "I know."

* * *

The Office Block sucks. Each office is situated parallel to each other with different officer's names embellished on the glass windows. A lot of kids and elders have already moved in during the day, but eventually, Oliver and I find an office to bunk in together. It's covered in a thick layer of dust and smells like rot, and I grimace while we set up our makeshift beds (two sleeping bags and a pillow) on the floor, especially when the dust makes Oliver sneeze and use his inhaler. There's only one pillow because Oliver's allergic to feathers, along with dust, and we only had feather pillows in A, B and C-Block, which means he'll have to go without a pillow until we find him something.

"G – God," Oliver sneezes twice, wiping his nose on his (_my!_) sleeve, taking another dose of Ventolin. "This is gonna _suck._"

I'm worried. Worried so bad my mouth is dry.

Oliver doesn't notice.  
I don't let him.

Once we are set up, we set off to patrol the halls, like Dad wanted. "We'll find you a sheath or somethin' for your machete," I tell Oliver as we walk, and he's about to thank me but his eyes snap ahead of us. I look, too.

"Hershel?" Oliver whispers.

"Where're you goin'?" I call after him.

The old man stop, turns to us, sighing impatiently. "I'm down here away from ya'll, 'cause you kids're suppose to stay away from me."

"We've been walkin' the halls." I take a few stubborn steps towards him. "My Dad told us to look out for everyone."

"Well, you should keep your distance."

"You're walkin' towards the exit," I point out, tilting my head to it, knowing full well that he is aware of this.

"I need to go out there."

"What? The cell blocks?" Oliver interjects, stood beside me.

"To the woods."

"So you're sneakin' out?" I ask, incredulous, feeling a little more confident with Oliver here as back up.

"Don't need anyone worryin' 'bout me," Hershel voice. "An' I damn sure don't want some kids tellin' me I can't go."

I look at Oliver for the back up I was depending on earlier, but he doesn't offer it, instead he's watching me, eyebrows arched, agreeing with the man. _Abort back up plan! Abort! Abort! Abort!_ I resist the urge to suddenly scowl at him, instead looking back to Hershel. "Well, _I _can't just let you go out into the woods, not by yourself," I say, though a little deflated after Oliver's rejection.

"_Let_ me?"

"I can't stop you," I explain truthfully. "But I'd have to tell my dad."

"Well go ahead then," Hershel waves me away. "I'll be out there by the time you find him." He's leaving, and I walk after him, not surprised to find that Oliver doesn't follow.

"_Hershel..._" The man turns to me. Under bushy white eyebrows, his pale blue eyes narrow. "If you have to go," I say, "then I have to go with you."

"Carl."

"I_ have_ to."

**Oliver's POV**

I observe.  
I'm good at that.

Carl shifts his weight on his hips, smirking the littlest bit because he's found his loophole. So, finally, Hershel nods reluctantly. "Go get your hat, boy." Carl heads off to our office, trusting the man to keep his –half forced– word, and Hershel narrows his ayes after him, coming to stand next to me when he's mustered enough humour to chuckle about this. "That boy is more stubborn that I am old."

"Well..." I say, leaning my back against the wall next to him, bringing my foot up against it, "he's gotta be pretty _darn_ stubborn then."

"Yeah?" He chuckles, his white beard bobbing back and forth under his hidden chin."Well, I'm pretty _darn_ old."

I laugh, too, a quiet, heavy laugh that wants to be truly amused, but can't quite get there. _**Mourning's a bitch, huh?**_ Hershel stops laughing, too, facing me. "It's cool," I say, "you're sorry about my brother. I know. You don't have to say it."

He sighs, purses his lips, nods in understanding. "Oliver. If you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you stayed here an' kept an eye on everyone."

"Yes, sir," I say quickly. "I was gonna stay anyway. Just, figured it's gonna be bad enough you have to go with Carl. It'd just be awkward if I went, too." This is why I hung back when Carl went all _stubborn Grimes_ on him before.

He nods in thanks, chuckling, the shoulder-bobbing kind. Hershel's been through a lot, and having Carl imply that he can look after Hershel better than Hershel can might be a little... _patronising,_ especially since Carl can fit several of his own life spans into just one of Hershel's. A few minutes later, while Hershel's telling me about how it was always Carl who used to sneak out and how _times have changed_ and all that, Carl returns. I turn to him, smiling from Hershel's stories of the _pre-teen Grimes,_ but my jaw drops.

He's wearing it.  
His hat.

_Holy shit!  
__Holy__ shit!  
Holy __shit!_

Despite my thoughts, I don't curse. No, now, I'm just staring, fully aware that before I couldn't even imagine Carl wearing a sheriffs' hat – fully aware that now I can't seem to _stop_ imagining him wearing it. And it only. _**Jesus Christ, Oliver, stop!**_

"Uh... Oliver?"

"Wha..." I suddenly snap out of my mental convulsion, realising I've been staring at him for the best part of a minute as he and Hershel were talking. "Shit, no. I-I wasn't! Wait, w-what?!"

_Why you gotta do that, Carl?  
Why you gotta be so freaking handsome?!  
Goddamit!_

_**Oliver!**_

I shake my head, looking at Carl in the eyes –instead of the various other body parts that I was accidentally glancing at before, and I startle when I see the wide mischievous smirk on his face. "Um..." he says, and glances down –at what it takes me a moment to realise: "squeeze any harder your hands're gonna fall off."

Confused, I look down at them. I'm clenching them. I'm clenching then so tightly my knuckles are white and my fingernails bite into my palms. They open them, the small joints releasing with what feels like a painful creek. I look back up to them, aware of my burning cheeks, "S-sorry."

With a cocked eyebrow, Carl's head pops back incredulously, "_Okay..._"

An awkward, wordless nod is my reply.

"Okay..." again, though as a statement this time. Then he dips his head, tugging the front of his hat rim down a little. Unfortunately, due to my currant hormonal-turmoil, this simple gesture threatens to bring me to my knees right before him, so I focus solely on remaining stood. _**Calm the fuck down, Oliver! **_I'm biting my lip, hard, nodding and nodding and nodding.

"Uh, um. Be careful. Out there. You know. Um. Don't... fall over." _**Fall over...? Fucking **_**fall **_**over? What the fuck, Oliver? **_"You know, or anything."

"Right..." Carl narrows his eyes –like usual I have no idea why. Then he looks at Hershel, who, quite frankly, I'd completely forgotten was here.

"Let's head out, son," he says, "try not to _fall over._"

_**Jesus fucking Christ.**_

"See you," Carl says, smiling like he's being careful about how far he curves his lips and shows his dimples.

* * *

They're still out there. I'm thinking about how much Michonne should've warned me about that hat, then thinking why on earth it would occur to her to do that at all, and then I'm thinking about the definition of being turned on and why it has to be such a freaking traumatic experience, and then I think about what the statistical probability of that ever happening to me again and being lucky enough not to suddenly show a more physical reaction without being able to control it, and how crazy-relieved I am that it didn't just happen because being a teenage boy is usually pretty unpredictable in that area and it's amazing it doesn't happen when I sneeze most of the freaking time. _**Boners suck **__–well, only mostly.__** Being a teenager sucks **–hmm, yeah, kind of __a lot.__** And being a confused teenager sucks even more **–Yeah. Yeah I can't argue with that. Sucks. Sucks like a bitch._

My train of thought is interrupted, however, by the sound of faint coughing from down the corridor. I head towards it, coming to a stop in front of an office door with the name: 'PC. Hammett' in gold writing on the bumpy glass window. I knock.

"Go away!" it's Mika.

A muffled cough. _Oh no, she's sick too? _"Mika," I say, burying the wash of dread. "C'mon. It's okay. If you're sick they can help you. But you gotta go to A-Blo–"

But Mika bursts out crying. I can see her through the tiny dents in the window surface pressing her back against the door, refusing my entry. "W-we're fine! Jus' go away! Please?!"

I hear another cough, but I realise that it isn't Mika who is coughing.  
Lizzie.

"Don't..." I hear the older Samuel sister's sickly, croaky voice, and she coughs desperately. "Don't let him take me there, Mika."

A lump forms in my throat. _I'm sorry, _I beg silently. _Patrick, I'm sorry._

"Lizzie." I step away from the door, my voice stern now. "You can't stay in there. You'll make your sister sick. We can help you, but you gotta go to A-Block."

I hear sad whispering on the other side of the door between the two for a moment. "No!" Mika gasps. "She can't go! She can't leave, too!"

"I-I know." My heart breaks. "But, Mika, you gotta do this. Please? It happened to, Pat. You need to let your sister get help, or she's..." I can't say that to them. "Lizzie?" I say instead, and I hear a little cough of yes from her. "Lizzie, you gotta do this, too. You gotta protect your sister. This is the only thing that'll help her – help you, too."

Eventually, the office door opens. Lizzie emerges, coughing into the inside of her elbow. Mika sits in the corner of the office, her arms wrapped around her knees, crying.

"Mika, you gotta wash, okay?" She looks up to me, tears running wet tracks down her cheeks. "There are showers on the second floor on the right. They're a little more difficult than the cell block showers because they have weird dials. If you can't get them to work Carl should be back soon and he'll help you."

She does as I ask, squeezing her sister's hand before she leaves. Sympathy flushes my cheeks and arches my brow, but I focus, taking Lizzie to A-Block. I can't go in, but I make sure Lizzie at least reaches the building.

"Carol's inside. You'll find her. She'll know what to do." The small child is shaking, sick and afraid. _**Comfort her, Oliver! **_"You're gonna be okay. Don't be scared." She nods, lets go of my hand. I watch her go inside, disappearing behind the big, rusty, metal doors. _**Death row.**_

* * *

Once back in the Office Blocks I go straight to my office and grab some of Carl's clothes, then rush to the shower room to find a cubicle. Like I said, the showers were for the officers so they really are a lot fancier. But the temperature dial makes a loud squeaking noise if you turn it a way that it disagrees with –because yes, they're so fancy that the showers have opinions. Well, not exactly, but the damn thing does startle me on several occasions when it does make the terrible noise. Which sucks, but it's over quickly, and after putting my clothes in the contaminated bin then dressing into Carl's clean clothes, I head back to our office. When I get to the door I hear someone inside. Someone crying. I go inside, and it turns my body to ice when I see him. It's Carl. And he's freaking out. Big time. Pacing around the room. Nervous and twitchy and stressed.

"Carl?"

"_Nyah_!" He startles, and I flinch, stumbling back out of the door when he launches at me –either about to hit me of hug me, I can't tell. But he stops himself short anyway, instead he grabs my sleeve and yacks me into the office, slamming the door shut after us. "Where were you?!"

"Carl, what the hell's wrong with you?"

"God!" He scowls at me, angry tears in his eyes that he has to thrash away, and he takes a step away closer, then away, crosses his arms over his stomach, hunched. "I thought you got sick, _asshat_! I couldn't find you anywhere!"

"I-I had to take Lizzie to A-Block."

"She got sick?"

I nod, breathless. "Have you seen Mika?"

"I jus' had to show her how to work the stupid dial thing on the shower. Oliver, I thought you were sick." He says it like he thinks the more he says it the less likely it'll become reality.

"I'm fine, man."

"I thought you were sick..." A pause, until he pushes past me and takes a seat on the desk, feet up on the chair, glaring into his knees. I sit next to him, propping my legs up, too, our legs pressing all the way down to the ankle. I'm kind of flattered really. I've never seen him show so much compassion for anything like he has for me lately, I mean, other than Judith, and his comics, and his gun.

"You know," I say, and I bump his shoulder, "worrying about me isn't gonna make me love you any more than I already do."

"Jesus," he whispers, his expression softening at my peculiar comment, but he brushes it off, suddenly, and his expression tenses again. I chuckle at him, which only infuriates him more. "Y-you know what?" he asks then, and I'm biting my lip. He's up now, pacing the room. "Fuck you, Oliver. _Fuck_ you, and your _fucking_ sarcasm."

I don't say anything for a moment, allowing him to defuse, frankly only just realising how much stress I've really cause him, especially to make him cuss so much in one sentence. It takes a few paces back and fourth across the room, but eventually he comes and sits next to me on the table again, and with one surprisingly painful jab to my side from his elbow, I'm forgiven.

"How'd it go with Hershel?" I ask a few moments later, wincing and rubbing my ribcage.

"Good, actually," he says. "He got his elderberry and I _didn't_ shoot two walkers."

I frown. The Carl I've gotten to know these past two and a half months would be more than comfortable to shoot a few walkers no problem, so I ask: "And_ not_ shooting two walkers is such a great accomplishment_ because_…?"

"I was gonna shoot them," Carl looks at me, serious. "But Hershel said I didn't have to… so I didn't."

I furrow my brow, smile, meaning it. "Well, congratulations, man. Proud of you."

Carl grins at the floor, "Thanks."

I smile at him, my eyes trailing up to his hat. I hear my hand talking to me, _Letmeletmeletmeletme! _and then I reach up, impulsively running my thumb across the dangles, then stop, realising what I'm doing. "Uh." Carl's grinning at me. "Sorry," I mutter, then: "I mean, uh, you got your hat."

"Yeah," he says like it's obvious –_**because it is.**_ "What do you think of it? Couldn't really tell earlier."

_Shit. He's on to me. He's on to me! __**Sarcasm. Sarcasm always does the trick! **_"Yeah," I say nonchalantly, "pretty sexy."

To my relief, Carl laughs, shoving my arm, "_Thanks._" I shove him back, which ensues a short wresting match between us, which results in me tackling him to the floor, though due to the fact that Carl's about the most stubborn and competitive teenager ever he gets the upper hand, rolling over on top of me. I'm grabbing at his shoulders, and he's grabbing my hands, laughing and grunting, and his hat falls off. When he grabs it back and looks at me he just grins, both of us having stopped wrestling now, because he's just watching me, and I'm watching him. Not smiling anymore. Just panting and staring and swallowing.

_**Play it cool! **_"Uh," I try, "you're, um, sat, on me." _**Not cool! Notcoolnotcoolnotcool! **_

"Oh," he mutters, clambering off of me. "Right, uh."

_**OhGodohGodohGod! So not cool! Sonotcool! **_"Where did you get it?" _**Oh. Not bad.**_

"Dad – gave it to me when I got shot." Carl's told me about how he got shot by Otis, and Hershel's farm and the barn full of walkers and finding Sophia. "He said I could join the club."

"What?" I ask.

"He got shot before all this. He was in a coma for almost two months before he found me and Mom at the Quarry."

My brow lifts, "This must seem like one hell of a nightmare for him."

"Yeah. He was Deputy at the King County Sheriffs' Department. This was his hat." _So it's not really a Sheriff's hat. __**Oh, whatever.**_ "But I think the fact I had a seizure mighta convinced him to give it to me, too."

My eyes widen, "You had a seizure? Jesus. Why?"

"You know," he says, and he's smirking now, "worrying about me isn't gonna make me love you any more than I already do."

He imitated my accent –which isn't all that different from his, only a little more articulate, and with more of a Virginian D.C-esque to it. As a result my cheeks heat up like a furnace. _Dammit. What is he trying to prove? __**What were you trying to prove when you said it, Oliver?**__ Nothing! I wasn't trying to prove anything! Carl's just being annoying… to just… annoy me!_

"Fuck you, Carl."

I frown at him, genuinely frustrated, because as much as I tell myself not to, I do like him. I like him more than I've liked anybody. And there's nothing I can do to change that and that sucks but it's also just really really good, too. Because most of the time liking him is like liking that different tasting ice cream even though everybody else likes the normal tasting ice cream even though the different tasting ice cream is just as good. But I like it, and just because nobody else does it doesn't have to mean that I'm wrong or weird or messed up or broken for it.

_**Oliver, Carl isn't ice cream. **__Oh, whatever. My point still stands. __**Sure. You're gay, or, no, probably bisexual, or pan-sexual, **__**or whatever-the-hell-other-endless-spectrum-of-it-all-sexual-you-might-be-and-are-totally-okay-for-being. **__Uh... I think I'll stick to 'just Oliver' for a while._

"Blood loss." My thoughts cut off. and I look at him, actually having forgotten what we were talking about in the first place. Carl notices my confusion, so elaborates. "I had the seizure from blood loss. Unfortunately a pretty common side affect of getting shot is quite a bit of blood loss."

I wince a little, "Do you remember it?"

"What?" Carl asks. "Getting shot? Or the seizure?"

"Erm. Both?"

"I remember just before I got shot. The deer." Carl's expressed his fondness of the creature before. "But the only thing I remember about the seizure is just before I blacked out. I felt, so, out of control." He's wincing, recollecting the memories. "L-like I wasn't even me anymore, just… locked, in my body, waiting for it all to stop… I guess kinda what I'd think being a walker is like, you know?"

I nod. "I think so."

"It's getting late," he says. "We should probably get some food before it's all gone."

* * *

Maggie brought food for all of us; mostly muesli and bottled water. Not exactly five star or anything, but no one's complaining. Maggie sadly tells us that Glenn, Doctor. S and Sasha all came down with the sickness, too. She does well to fight her tears, but I can't imagine her pain. It's terrible enough losing Patrick, I can't begin to understand what it would be like to have your love's life threatened.

When we finish Carl and I head back to our office after checking everyone's alright and won't need anything. Carl misses Judith, who is being kept in extreme quarantine down the hall with Beth –they can't even come out. If the infant got sick, we all know that she would be a hopeless case within hours. But anyway, the night is uneventful, depressing, and uncomfortable, with only Carl's jumpers as a lumpy pillow and no mattress under either of us.

"Guess it's better than out there," Carl whispers after a while of listening to my occasional grunts of annoyance. We're about a foot apart, led parallel though top and tailing so that Carl's feather pillow isn't too close to my face, otherwise… well, asthma attack and all.

"I slept on a truck roof that felt comfortable than this," I grumble, but regardless of my complaints, I am tired. Carl chuckles lazily, then falls quiet, letting me drift a little more, though just as I'm falling under he mumbles something to me, but I don't hear it. "Wha-what?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

_No, I wanna know, _I try to say, but it comes out like a grunt, and then I'm falling, falling and falling and falling into Sleep Land.

* * *

**Notes**

I actually really like _just Oliver,_ too.

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_


	10. Indifference and Internment

**Carl's POV**

_Shuffle...  
Rustle._..

It pulls me out of sleep.

_Shuffle...  
Rustle..._

Eventually, once I collect enough motivation, I open my eyes, sitting up, my back sore, missing my cot.

_Shuffle...  
Rustle..._

I wipe my eyes, peeking with one of them to the noise, though my eyes widen when I see what it is. It's Oliver, by the way. Oliver getting dressed. I turn away quickly, only to look again a moment later, watching him pull on his (_my!_) jeans, hopping, quietly rummaging around inside my duffel bag for a shirt. I'm still staring... _gawking _might be a better word. A little. Kind of. A lot. But he isn't looking directly at me, so my sleepy-logic believes that he can't see me looking at him. But I'm wrong.

"Morning, Carl."

I startle, badly, slapping my hands up over my eyes, the heat burning my palms. "Sorry."

Oliver chuckles, "Like what you see?"

I glare at him, grumbling, "_No._ Shut up, I just woke up," as if it's a good excuse.

"Sure," he says, and then, regardless of my statement, I still find myself glancing at his exposed chest, the budding muscle tone only just developing there. Scrawny, really, but, in a type of _Oliver way_ that somehow still seems. . . Wait, no, nothing. I shake my head, looking away, which was more obvious than I thought because Oliver laughs, buckling his jeans up.

"Douche," I mumble, awkwardly pulling my sleeping bag up.

"I'm just fucking with you, man," he says. "Hey, can I use these?"

Slowly and carefully, I turn to look at him, ignoring his skin, instead looking at the denim over-shirt and my red short-sleeve in his other. "Yeah, whatever."

"Thanks." Oliver pulls them on. "C'mon, get dressed," he says, stuffing his inhaler into his front pocket. "I'll go brush my teeth then patrol. I'll meet you out there."

Oliver leaves, and I quickly dress into my jeans, sweat-stained top, dirty shirt, trekking boots and sheriffs' hat. Not exactly the nicest attire, but I don't freeze, so I'm not complaining. Once I'm done brushing my teeth I find Oliver in the foyer, and he gives me a high five, and I grin and lace our fingers, and he pulls, says, "Come on," and I let go and say, "Yep."

* * *

It's around lunch time, and the Veterinary College run still hasn't returned. Mika keeps crying, and occasionally Judith will hear her and start crying, too, and Oliver will grab my arm and whisper for me not to and I'll only just realise I'd started heading towards her. Dad left with Carol about four hours ago to find something to help the sick, but in doing so they've left Maggie as the only healthy adult to keep up the Prison. There's nothing Oliver and I can do to help her either because we have to stay here. I don't understand why Dad couldn't have just gone alone. We need Carol here. Dad can look after himself just fine. Maybe she has a better knowledge of the kind of medication he's looking for. Whatever his reasoning, he knows what he's doing.

We're in our office. Reading. Me: comic. Him: book. Killing time. But it's hard to focus on the stories when we're constantly worried about everything. Then, just when I can't take it anymore and convinced I'm about to throw my comic across the room, storm out of the building, go look for Dad and Carol myself, somebody calls my name.

"Was that Dad?"

Oliver looks up, frowns, "No..."

"Wait, it was."

"Think about something enough you start hearing it," he tells the comic. "I'd know."

"I wasn't talking to mys–"

"_Carl_!"

Oliver hears it, too, this time, and his head snaps up from his Green Lantern's splash page. "Holy sh–"

"C'mon."

"_Carl_!"

I skid around the corner. Oliver jogs up next to me, and we see my father lugging a large supply bag over his shoulder, two full-with-his-and-Carol's-find trash bags in his hand. He looks unscathed, pretty anxious and stressed and tired, but not hurt.

"You okay?"

He smiles, "Was gonna ask you that."

We walk towards him but Dad steps back at the same pace, so we stop, and so does he. For once, Oliver talks first: "We're okay."

Dad nods to him, shifting his eyes intermittently as he replies, "No one's sick? You didn't have to do anything?"

I look at Dad sideways, shake my head, ignoring my annoyance. Oliver shakes his head, "No, sir."

"Haven't had to use my gun, Dad."

He nods, "And Judith?"

"She's with Beth."

"Good." He sets the trash bags on the floor and pulls the bag off his shoulder. "Found some food on the run," he says, sliding the bag across. I catch it, sling it over my shoulder. "There's a bunch of fruit that're in there so have everybody brush their teeth after."

"Thanks," Oliver says gratefully. Dad picks up the trash bags and walks away.

"Can we come out soon?"

Dad stops, turns. . . "Not jus' yet."

"Dad. We were around you when you were in the middle of it. Oliver was in there with you. A-and we were around Patrick… We didn't get it. We can help you."

"Thanks. But, I need you to stay here."

He's walking away, and I glance to Oliver, motioning us to leave. But Oliver rolls his eyes, steps closer and grabs my shoulders, and I only grunt a little when he pulls me to turn around, whispering a short, "Say something," when he pushes me forward.

"Dad." I wince, turn to frown at Oliver, then turn back to Dad. "Look, I will stay. We both will, but..." I sigh. Dad's frowning. "You can't keep me from it."

"From what?"

". . . From what always happens."

"Yeah. Maybe. But I think it's my job to try."

Then he leaves. I stare after him, irritated and sorry and guilty. Because he isn't getting it, and the damage is done, and he still thinks he can help me. Oliver walk up to me. My head is dipped, but I turn to him when he puts his hand on my shoulder. I let him take the bag when he pulls it off, and he brushes my hand with his fingers.

"Why do you keep doing that?" I ask, only I don't ask, I just watch him, wanting to reach over and take his hand properly, and so it's actually him that speaks first. . .

"Come on, Carl."

* * *

The sun is setting, and we're returning to our office after the peach feast. Marge and Moses, two elderly people, fell ill, and they've gone to A-Block, too. But we're trying not to think about it. To do so, Oliver is ranting about the _cruelly unsatisfying –_his words– ending in the book he finished after eating, called something like _The Long Division_, and I pay him mild to no interest as he talks.

"I mean, yeah, it's great. But it just finished mid-sentence. The narrator just died. But it didn't explain what happened to the others. And, I need that closure, you know? Without closure, how can they call it a story? What's up with that? It's barbaric!"

_**!CLACK!**_

I spin around, startling. Oliver startles so badly he doubles over and shields his head. "What was that?"

"Gunshot," I breathe.

_**!BANG!**_

"What's happening?" Oliver asks desperately, and he's holding his machete. "A-another cell block?" I open my mouth, but lose the sentence I was going to say. Oliver knows why, and it terrifies him, shakes him to the core. "People're turning."

"_Carl_!"

I snap my head around. "Dad?"

"_Oliver_?"

"Come on," Oliver barks at me, and we run.

"_Boys_!"

We round the corner. He's holding a flash-light, his expression moonlit, lines of distress drawn across every inch of it. He motions us to hurry. So we do, stopping a few yards away. "We heard gunshots!"

"I need your help."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Apparently we don't need guns, and when the three of us are heading down to the fences –away from the gunshots– Carl asks why, and Rick just says, "We gotta keep 'em from cavin' in. The weight of the walkers is getting too much." We go through the watch tower, then out into the inner fence strip. When we see the state of the fence Carl and I stop in our tracks.

"Oh," is what leaves my breath, then: "Holy shit."

Walkers stack on top of each other, trampling themselves underneath one another, shoving against the fence. So many. So many my body turns to ice and my nerve crumbles to powder. Right before us, the fence dips and sways violently, caving under their colossal weight. Rick takes us to a particularly bad part. There are chopped wooden beams propped up along the fence already, doing all they can, but there aren't nearly enough to hold yet.

We don't wait.

Rick explains how, and we get the beams and wedge them against the fence, hammering them into the earth and gravel. We do this repeatedly, setting up at least ten more. I'm hammering the end of a beam into the gravel. Rick holds it steady. Carl's gone to get another beam. And the walkers shove aggressively. For a second I tense up when Carl's back gets a little too close to the fingers that writhe for him, but he knows what he's doing, and they can't reach him.

Rick goes over, grabs the beam. "I got it."

"Let me help," Carl insists, lifting the other end. Rick watches him, but relents, and they both set up the next beam while I finish the previous one. Something starts cracking. At first I don't hear it well, and almost dismiss it, but it happens again so I looks. My heart stops. Because right here in front of me the support keeping me alive suddenly snaps.

"Fuck."

I don't know why it seems like the only option, but my first instinct is to launch myself at the fence, barely missing the snapping teeth that bite at my fingers. Rick roars something at me, but he's drowned out by the shrieks and snaps and gargles, but then he and Carl are here, pushing and shoving, using the sign against the mesh to avoid the teeth. But it dips, further and further. . .

_**No, no, no!**_

Then the next beam is gone, snapping clean in the middle. The fence caves, completely, and it's only Rick's wrench at my collar that saves me from getting crushed under it, and then they're coming, pouring into the inner strip. I try to scramble out of the way, but in my panic I fall to my knees, clambering and cursing hysterically. Too foggy. Too terrified. _Get up! _I scream at my muscles. _Get up! _But they refuse to cooperate. _I can't!_

Then Rick yanks my collar, Carl's, too.

"GO!"

Running and running. Rick pushes another walker before it can get to us, but he loses his footing, falls to the floor only a few yards away.

"Rick!" I grab the shoulder of his shirt, pull. "C'mon!"

Walkers bite at our heels, but the three of us get to the door, launching through it, and Rick slams it closed. I'm heaving my breath, after so long I'd almost forgotten the stench. It makes me gag, sticks to my throat and nose like tar. Rick turns to Carl and I, shocked, his mouth wide, processing. We all jump away from the door when the walkers attack it from the other side.

_**Oh god, oh god, oh god!**_

"Boys."

We all stumble into the parking lot, panting. The walkers see us come out and change their course to the fence closest, wrapping against it so violently that it starts dipping almost immediately.

"Dad," Carl whispers. "What do we do?"

Rick wipes his upper lip, looks at his son, fear bleeding across his expression. "I can back the bus up against the fence... I-I think."

"Will it hold?" Carl asks, acutely aware of his father's terror.

Rick looks at the fence, then Carl, me, then Carl again, and he winces. Then without a word he's running to the bus, climbing inside, grabbing and pulling when Carl and I follow after him, sitting in the seats behind him. When Rick starts the engine he puts the heavy vehicle into gear, drives towards the fence. But our stomachs drop when we see that we've ran out of time, and even if we did there are way too many for it to be effective.

"It's not gonna work," Carl thinks aloud, staring wild eyed.

"Go! We gotta deal with'm ourselves."

We leave the bus lights on, facing the walkers, giving us enough light to see what we have to do, and we hurtle towards the armoury bins lined up against the fence behind us. Rick grabs a rifle and hands it to Carl. "You got it?"

"Yep."

I watch Rick take another rifle, doing the last thing I want and handing it over to me. I wince, and he frowns at me. "D'you know how to use a gun?"

After almost a year and a half of living in the apocalypse it's normal to assume someone's at least competent in using a gun. But no, this pathetic teenager –who unfortunately happens to be me– has never fired a gun in his entire life. I'm shaking my head, panicking, feeling my throat tighten. _**Oh, God. This is terrible!**_

"Hey." Rick's expression doesn't change. He simply nods, puts a firm hand on my shoulder, says, "Listen close, okay? Today's the day you'll learn," far too confidently for my liking. Regardless, I nod. "Alright." Rick grabs a rifle for himself and motions us to follow. "Listen to me. Both o' you. Magazine goes in here. Release is here. Make sure to latch it. Pull back the operating rod. The rounds speed up. Keep squeezing the trigger for rapid fire, okay?"

It surprises me that everything he says and demonstrates actually makes sense to me. It turns out that Story Time has served its purpose. Carl and I nod, repeating everything that he tells us. Carl does everything flawlessly, but I take a little longer –still getting it done though. Rick looks pretty shocked that I have done it correctly, but he nods and focusses. I'm thinking about the shooting part. I've never done that bit. Can't fire a gun in a library.

Rick stops, takes Carl's shoulder, and I try to mimic their confidence. "You shoot or you run," Rick instructs, shifting his eyes between us both. We're nodding. "Don't let 'em get close, okay?"

We nod again, and I try not to let my hands tremble against the cold of the rifle. But then there is a _clang, _and the whole fence panel slams to the gravel. I flinch. We all do.

"Fuck," I don't mean to say aloud.

The walkers flood into the parking lot, stumbling over each other as fast as their rotten limbs allow. We don't hesitate. Rick, Carl and I take aim, and the two Grimes' begin shooting, taking out the walkers with no problem. I, on the other hand, take a little more time. Keeping my nerve. Trying to remember what Carol said: _"Take your time to aim, breathe in, breathe out, and…"_**_ Oh, what was the other bit she said in the lesson? _**I realise I don't have time to wonder about it now though, so I take a deep breath and pull the trigger.

_**!CLACKA!**_

Pain rockets through my shoulder, and I inevitably miss; the bullet hitting the wall of the watch tower. _Fuck, that hurt!_ I remember now: _"Take your time to aim, breathe in, breathe out,__** and watch the kick back,"**_ Carol said. I shake off my throbbing shoulder and take aim again, wincing, breathing. . .

_**!BANG!**_

. . . This time, successfully bracing for the kick back. I hit a walker in the throat. It keeps coming after us. _**Oliver, get your shit together! **_I aim again, and it's too close and terrifying. But then the walker slumps to the floor with a bullet hole through its temple. Confused and relieved, I look over to Carl, and he has enough time to nod, in almost the same moment quickly shooting another two walkers in their foreheads.

Despite the urgency of the situation I still feel embarrassed, but I aim again, and when I pull the trigger the walker's head explodes, and it crashes to the floor. _**Fuck yeah!**_ The next walker takes two bullets. All the while Rick and Carl put down countless walkers with the first bullet they shoot. Earth shaking shots ring out in the parking lot, and walker after walker drops to the asphalt with a black oozing puddles forming around their heads. We have to move back to make more distance after a few minutes. But the cluster is thinning. I get down to being able to take it out at least one in every three or four walkers with only one bullet, the others usually taking two or more, which is nothing compared to the two Grimes', but for me it's impressive.

When Rick's ammo runs out he's forced to take out an advancing walker with a hard blow to its temple. Carl quickly puts a bullet in its head, and I grab a magazine from my pocket and toss it to him, and he quickly throws it to his father. Then, together, Carl and I advance on the lessening horde, shooting. _Twelve left. Ten. Nine. Seven._ Rick hangs back, and when I glance at him, and I'm confused to see the shocked expression on his face, but he composes himself again, takes aim. _Three. Two. One. _Rick shoots the last walker, and it collapses. We overlook our work, and the silence sets in. It makes my ears ring. But it's over and we are okay. That's all that matters.

**Carl's POV**

Using crowbars –and Oliver's machete, we finish the last few stragglers off. When Dad takes out the last walker he turns to me. I watch him, and he looks exhausted and worried and afraid, and he looks away, fighting his tears. I know why. I know what this means: _There's a hole in our home, a chink in our armour, and it's never going to be like it used to and there's nothing I can do about it._ I look at the floor, feeling guilty again.

Then Dad looks at me, and I nod because it might help, and it seems to because he nods back, pats my shoulder, so I turn to Oliver. He looks close to collapsing with exhaustion."You okay?" I ask quietly, and Oliver gulps and nods.

"Well done both of you," Dad says. "Oliver, you shot well."

Oliver nods tiredly. He wants to use his inhaler, I can tell, but he won't want to until he's alone. "Where'd you learn about guns," I ask.

"Erm. Carol," he admits dubiously, glancing at Dad. "Her lessons." Dad suddenly looks like he's in pain. Oliver notices, and his expression drops, "Mr. Grimes... where is she?" Then his eyebrows arch. "She... She didn't come back with you." Dad lets go of our shoulders, shakes his head. He purses his lips and shifts his weight on his hips. I can still see his tears welling in his eyes. "She's dead, isn't she?"

"Somethin' happened," Dad starts. "I... I had to–"

A car engine.

We spin around to look, and we see the grey vehicle ride up to the front gates. They're back. I sigh, and Oliver has to wipe his eyes. But he looks at me, nods, and I nod back.

"Dad. . ."

He looks at me, inhales.

". . . Everything's gonna be okay."

* * *

**Notes**

Happy reading xx :_)_


	11. I Did What I Had to Do

**French Mandarine **HELLO! OMG I HOPE THAT YOU HAVEN'T READ THIS CHAPTER YET BECAUSE THIS IS THE ONLY WAY I CAN GET YOU TO KNOW HOW FUCKING AMAZING YOU ARE! THANK YOU FOR YOUR REVIEWS! It's like, the 23rd of August 2015 for me and I posted this chapter about a year ago, and so I had to put this in this chapter instead of the latest one for you because right now you're on chapter 5 or 6 and god I hope I've gotten to you in time! Yes, so, thanks for the reviews, lovely xxxx they're amazing!

* * *

**Carl's POV**

"We did okay."

"Yeah," I reply. "But you should keep hold of your machete. Your shooting's not quite there yet."

Oliver tries to laugh, but he's too breathless –too pumped with adrenaline, but he manages to let a short, "Jackass," pass his lips. I can hear him wheezing. I can hear Dad and the others rushing to get the medication to A-Block. I can hear a fox in the distance crying into the night. I can hear the walkers. And for the shortest moment I'm so unafraid that I smile.

Oliver coughs.

"You should take your inhaler."

Oliver nods, takes it, too out of breath to speak yet. I wince, like I always seem to do, and then I take a breath when he takes a third dose, but stop because such a gesture in front of him right now seems like bragging. At this, Oliver rolls his eyes. "You know, if you didn't watch me like a hawk when I took it I wouldn't be so damn reluctant to use it in front of you."

"Sorry." I drop my gaze, blushing, scratching my cheek, and he smiles, hooking my wrist with his fingers and pulling me to the Office blocks. He lets go when we get to the doors, and I end up grabbing his shoulders, and he grunts, swinging around and shoving me off, laughing, and I laugh, too, and it's only when we get back to our office that I become aware of how incredibly exhausted I am. So I slump across the floor on my sleeping bag, struggling to sit myself up against the wall. Oliver closes the office door behind him and drops next to me, tossing his machete against the wall with a _clatter,_ pulling off his beanie and twisting it in his hands.

"You're a good shot."

I smile. "Thanks." He hands me his beanie. "What?"

He shrugs in answer, and so I pull the hat on, smiling at him, and I can't tell in the dark but his eyes look darker, somehow, like all pupil. But it's dark so I can't be sure. I can't be sure about anything. I mean, sometimes I think I am, and sometimes I'm okay with it, but other times it scares me and I'm not okay with it and I'm not sure, like how I suddenly feel now. So I stop looking at him and rest my head back on the wall.

"Looks cool," he whispers.

I smirk then, frowning, too. But then not frowning. Feeling okay-_er _and sure-_er_. . . "Like you with red nail polish?"

Oliver snickers, jerking his elbow against my arm. I hear the light thump when he rests his head back, too, and after a moment of quiet he says, "Your Dad. He looked pretty shaken..." he trails, takes a breath. "You know, after everything." I just shrug. "Is he gonna be alright?" Again, I shrug. I don't have a clue. He's strong; Dad. But I've seen him worse than tonight. Tonight was nothing. I've seen him scream at the air. I've seen him break down and go insane. I've seen him kill his best friend.

My mind trails to the conversation Dad and I had earlier, annoyed and guilty about it, still. But he's only doing it because of what I did. At the time it happened, out in the woods with Hershel and Beth and Judith that day of the attack, I thought it would come back to haunt me, like Dale, or Mom. I thought that if I didn't do it. . . Anyway, lately, over the last few months, and after sneaking out with Hershel, and Dad finally giving my gun back, I realise how differently I could have taken that day. I realise that maybe I didn't have to do what I did. . . that it wouldn't have come back to haunt me. . . maybe.

"Oliver." I have to. He'll never trust me again but I have to. "I gotta tell you something."

He turns to me, frowning. "What's up?"

"..."

"Um," Oliver mumbles, and he's smiling. "You know, when somebody says they gotta tell you something you're usually supposed to actually _say_ something."

"When my Dad took my gun," I almost interrupt him, and he stops smiling, aware of how serious I'm being. "There's a reason he did it. I... I did something."

It takes me aback that Oliver doesn't look confused, or annoyed that I haven't explained myself any better, he just waits for me to form the words, like he's been waiting for me to tell him this for a while.

"I killed someone."

My throat closes.  
Oliver doesn't say anything, just nods.  
My throat opens again, a little.

"In the attack. He was part of the Governor's military. Just a kid. He was running away. Ran right into us – Hershel, Beth, Judith and I. He... He... H-he..." I should say it. The last detail. The last detail that's going to cause Oliver to hate me and lose any and all respect he has for me. "He was handing over his weapons." I watch him, refusing to let the tears fall. "But I shot him anyway."

Oliver just shifts his weight in his seat. "Doesn't matter."

At first I think it's in my head, wanting him to accept this so much that I've convinced myself that he did. But he speaks again, nodding. . .

"You did what you had to do."

How can he say that? I'd believed I did what I had to do for so long. Only lately have I become aware of how unfathomably diverse that statement really is. There's an invisible line between the right _'I did what I had to do'_ and the very wrong _'I did what I had to do'_ and it is confusing to understand where you are on that line. Extremely confusing. So my chest wells, and I scowl. Oliver frowns, but in persistence rather than outrage.

"I_ know,_" I try, angry. "But–"

"Have you killed anyone else?"

I narrow my eyes at him. This isn't how I'd imagined this happening. I had scenarios stretching from him running away in fear to calling me a monster. I didn't have it in any one of them him being so unphased, so nonchalant, so accepting. It makes me angry, though not at him, I realise. I just hate how everything's turned out. I hate what this world has made me do, and I hate myself worst for doing it. My hands bawl to fists against my kneecaps, and Oliver looks at them. But despite my temper he isn't deterred. He simply waits.

"My mom."

Neither of us move a muscle. I wonder what Oliver thinks of me now. I wonder if he is disappointed. I wonder if he will ever be able to look at me the same way again. I wouldn't blame him. I can't even look at me the same way anymore.

Out of irritation, I break the tense silence: "On the day Judith was born, a few days after getting here, a prisoner, Andrew, let a load of walkers out of D-Block. We had to run. Dad, Daryl and Glenn were by the fences. Beth and Hershel got behind the C-Block barricade. T-Dog got bit closing the gate but he and Carol escaped into the main building. Mom, Maggie and I escaped into the tombs." I wince, rolling through the flashbacks. "We got to the boiler room but Mom went into labour. Something went wrong. Mom started... bleeding. Maggie had to cut her open. . . I couldn't save her."

"_Don't let the world spoil you."  
_I failed her. I've let it spoil me. I've let it turn me into a monster.

"I shot her."  
And now Oliver knows it, too.  
"I shot my Mom."

Then Oliver is hugging me. It takes a moment, but I relax into him, and my hands come up against his shoulder blades. I start crying, so I bury my face into his shoulder, forcing myself not to hiccup or make a noise in the small hope he doesn't notice, and if he does notice then he's kind enough not to say so. He just hugs me tighter, and it feels good. Good like doodling on a piece of scrap paper. Good like dew on fence posts and the vegetable garden early in the morning. Good like grooming Flame after she's come back from a run, smoothing my hand over the damp fur after sponging it down. Good like what it feels like to hug him. Because that does feel good. Crazy _good._ Crazy _terrifying._ Crazy _amazing._ Crazy _Oliver._

"I'm glad you told me."

I nod, pull away, look down at my hands. "Me too."

I watch him, trying to get my eyebrows to relax, and he looks sad and small and tired and teenage boyish.

"I caused another man do die. Dale Horvarth. A walker got him."

Oliver frowns. He's heard the name. Once he asked me who Dale was when he saw his name painted on the tool box. I'd said I didn't know. I was lying. "But if a walker got him, how wa–"

"I snuck out. Found a walker stuck in the mud. I was messin' with it. Thinkin' it couldn't get me. But it got out, almost grabbed me, but I got away. It followed me, found Dale, and ripped him apart."

I'm scowling at him. Oliver stares right back, but he suddenly looks annoyed, frowns. "Look," he says suddenly, "you can be as angry as you want at me for _whatever_ reason it is that you feel like you have to be, okay? You can sit here. You can glare. You can cry. Shout. Scream –_fucking_– hit me for all I care." Then he's smiling, like a _You're such an idiot, _kind of smile. "Either way I'm not letting you push me away like you're trying to. I'm _not_ afraid of you. And I sure as hell am _not_ gonna think you're some psycho-nut-job who kills kids and tickles walkers all day. I mean, killing dogs and peeing out of windows isn't much but I get it. I've done bad stuff, too."

I sigh, looking away, quickly wiping a tear that Oliver pretends not to notice. "I wouldn't hit you," I whisper. Then: "And it was rocks."

"What?"

"I was throwing rocks. At the walker. I wasn't tickling it."

Oliver looks at me and laughs, and I try not to, but I laugh, too. So for a few moments, we're just smiling and looking at each other, thinking, and then Oliver is frowning, softly, not annoyed, just looking. Looking so close I wonder if he's in my head. I wonder if he's seeing what I'm thinking. Because in my head I'm tipping forward. In my head I'm finding out what would happen if I just did it. Right now. Kissed him like it didn't even matter. Like reading a comic or picking a weed or crushing on a girl rather than a boy.

But on the outside I look away and stand up. "We should get dressed."

"Yeah." He reaches over and grabs a T-shirt and sweat pants, goes to leave.

"Where're you going?"

"Bathrooms. Somewhere I won't be peeped on again."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

When I return a few minutes later, Carl's already unconscious, sprawled across the floor on his stomach, one arm stretched across the floor and the other folded at an odd angle behind his back._** He can't be comfortable like that, can he? **__I don't know. He seems pretty out of it._ I drop my clothes next to Carl's orange duffel, but as I do I see something smooth and wooden sticking out of it. I can't see much –it being so dark, but my curiosity gets the better of me so I crouch down, uncovering the rest of the picture frame, pulling it out. I take it to the window and hold it under the moonlight. And I grin, "Holy shit."

It's a family portrait.  
The Grimes' family portrait.

Rick; shaven like I have never seen him before. Carl; young. Maybe nine or ten. Totally adorable. To this day I've never seen him smile so widely and I probably never will. There's a woman in the picture. Lori. Carl's Mom. Totally beautiful, of course. Carl has her hair –dark and smooth. And he has her complexion –pale and freckled. His electric blue eyes and defined jawline is _all_ his father. But, you know, still Carl. _All_ Carl. _All_ awesome and _all_ great and _all_ brilliant Carl.

"Snoop."

I startle, swivelling around to look at him, expecting his outrage, but he's smirking. Well, okay, almost smirking. He's still lead on the floor in that unnatural position with only one eye open, the other squashed against his pillow. It makes me laugh. I lift the picture. "You were so cute back then. What happened?"

It's kind of true, too. I mean, not that Carl isn't cute. Or whatever. I mean he _is_ cute. Really really. What I mean is that in the picture he looks so oblivious, _naive,_ like a normal child. But now it's obvious that Carl is not this boy anymore. Far from it in fact. So far that the two could be classed as completely separate individuals. Separate _species_ maybe. But that's what this world does to you now. I could say the same for myself, just on an altered scale. I haven't killed a person, and nobody's ever really sought out to kill me. I've seen people die. I've been scared by people. My parents are walkers, and... and my brother just died. But I didn't have to put any of my own family down, and I haven't had to kill anyone, so I can't even begin to imagine how much it can rip your soul apart to take a life.

Carl had been rolling his eyes. But they're closed now. I put the picture on the desk and go lie down in my sleeping bag, looking at his toes for a second. I don't like sleeping without socks on. It makes me feel inside out without them. Like I've left an oven on or something.

"Hey," I whisper. His toes curl. It makes me grimace. "You awake?"

"No."

I push myself up, shuffle and twist around to lie next to him. "You awake now?" His eyes open, and he frowns, then pulls his pillow out from under his head and tosses it by his feet for my sake. "Thanks, man." A pause. He groans. He's still wearing my beanie.

"Jus' before she died," Carl mumbles, and I feel the curve in my lips drop, "she… she said, _'I don't want you to be scared. You take care of your dad for me, alright? And your little brother or sister... You're gonna be fine. You are gonna beat this world, I know you will. You are smart, and you are strong, and you are so brave. And I love you,'._" He says it as if he's said it a thousand times, over and over again in his head. But he stays with the side of his face pressed to his hand and his eyes closed, talking tired and croaky like he's talking in his sleep. I whisper for him to stop, that he doesn't have to, but he doesn't stop talking: "_'You gotta do what's right, baby. You promise me you'll always do what's right... It's so easy to do the wrong thing in this world. So, if it feels wrong don't do it, alright? If it feels easy don't do it – don't let the world spoil you… You're so good...'_" He hesitates, grimacing like he doesn't believe it. And a part of me knows he doesn't, too. "_'My sweet boy... Best thing I ever did, and I love you. I love you. My sweet, sweet, boy… I love you.'_"

I just lie there, tears welling, and I stare down at the boy who I've fallen in love with. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but that's what's happened here. Because I'm completely love struck by the boy. His eyes finally open, and tears roll across my face, smearing on the floor when I wipe them away. I feel paralysed. I feel like I can't breath. But my inhaler can't help this time. This is an overwhelmed feeling. Because he's done it. He's managed to scare me. Terrify me. But I'm not afraid of him. I'm afraid of what is happening to him. What his past and this world is doing to him.

"You okay?"

I nod, snake my head, too, "Yeah. Fine."

He pushes himself to sit up. "You're crying."

"Yup."

He watches me, like he's not really sure what to do. I sniff, focussing on stopping. "Sorry." I don't stop. Instead I turn away and scrunch my face up in my palms, forcing my voice to stay level. "I just… God, I didn't think I'd cry like this... since Pat."

"Sorry."

I start laughing. Hysterically. I don't know why. Maybe it's just the astonishment that Carl seems so outwardly undeterred by everything he's just said, or maybe it's that I've finally accepted the extent of how I feel about him, but whatever it is, he's – "Amazing," I say, turning back to him. "You're totally amazing. Like, really, really."

He purses his lips, shakes his head. "I think about what she told me all the time. I just wanted you to hear her, too – I mean, what she said – hear _what_ she said."

"Yeah."

"Yeah..."

I fold my knees up to my chest and hug them, focussing on the damp on my kneecaps and the tares I thumb at in Carl's borrowed jeans. "H-how'd you do it?"

I look at him, and he's frowning, confused. "Well, same way you'd shoot normally. Aim and pull th–"

"No. No, I mean..." I stutter. "God, I mean _that._ How did you just say that without breaking? How've you just _come back_ from everything? How have you done it? I-I can't even imagine – I mean, _shit, _man, I don't even know how to ask."

"Oliver…"

I nod, wiping another stream.

"I haven't," he whispers. "I haven't come back from it, Oliver."

I stare, frowning, eyelashes clumping.

"It doesn't matter," he says then, pulling his sleeping bag over himself.

"It _does,_" I whisper. But I can tell Carl doesn't want to speak anymore, so I leave him to his thoughts and roll over under my sleeping bag.

* * *

**Notes**

Favourite part(s)?  
Worst part(s)?  
Helpful criticism is truly appreciated :D

Preview: In the next one, The Governor returns… but just before, Carl has something to finally tell his friend… and expresses some 'other' stuff too.

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_


	12. Too Far Gone, Part 1: To Kiss a Boy

**"Cosmic Love" by Florence and the Machine**

* * *

**Carl's POV**

I wake up alone, sitting up and rubbing the back of my neck. It aches because sleeping in normal positions seems to be something I'm not very good at it. Oliver's gone, so I dress, brush my teeth, then head out; crossing the back yard and heading across the courtyard. It makes me smile when I see that Flame is still in her paddock. Michonne's still here. I realise from the position of the sun that it has gone eight o'clock in the morning, and I wonder why nobody ever wakes me up anymore to a point where it makes me roll my eyes.

"I'm not saying I'll tell him."

I halt at Oliver's voice, glancing around to see him sat alone on the gravel of the courtyard with his back against the wall of the main building. He doesn't notice me because his eyes are closed and his head is rested against the wall and he's tapping his fingers into his kneecap. Also, because he's Oliver, he's talking to himself. . .

"I'm just wondering what he'd think if I ever did tell him."

"Hey," I say. Oliver startles. "Mornin'."

He hums –like a conversation outside his mind might be too much to expect yet, so I sit opposite him, crossing my legs and cocking an eyebrow. He rolls his eyes, looks away, scratching his eyebrow with his thumb, then says, "Turns out we don't have any chores to do. Yet, anyway. Your dad told me to have a few hours off, uh, relax, all that. Wants you to, too. He was in the Office Blocks this morning but you were still asleep. I tried to wake you but you just mumbled something about string beans and told me to piss off."

I laugh. "Really?"

"Yeah," he grins, grimaces. "And why string beans? Why not... macaroni? Or pigs feet?" I can't help but giggle like an idiot, and Oliver bites his lip, and I look at that happen even though it makes me stop laughing. "You were pretty tired," he says then, not laughing either, just calm, maybe even a little empathetic, "after everything."

I look at my trekking boots, thinking about everything I told Oliver last night. I was so afraid that he'd hate me –so much I _tried_ to make him hate me so that it wouldn't hurt when he understood what I really am.

But he's still here.

_But he won't be, _I think. _Not after he finds out the last secret. Not when he finds out how I feel about him. _But then. . . _Maybe he won't leave. Maybe he'll still be here. Does that happen? Is that even possible?_

"Did he say anything about what they're gonna do about the fence," I ask, bringing my thoughts back to what Oliver is really talking about. He shrugs. I chew my lip. "Oh."

"It's pretty bad," he tells me, squinting from the sun when a cloud moves out of its shine. "Your dad said he and some of the others boarded it up for now."

"It's not gonna hold for long." I'm gritting my teeth. The fences were always going to come down sooner or later, and I was hoping later –we all were, because we'd have had time to make a solution. But, I guess this _was_ later. We've been here almost eight months now. Should've done something about the fences already. Taking out clusters wasn't enough.

"It was always gonna happen," Oliver says, and he sounds annoyed. "It's what always happens. You said so yourself." He looks me up and down, frowning _Oliverly. _I frown back, and he says, "At least no one was hurt when it finally did."

"Shoulda done something to stop it."

"We _did,_" Oliver says, almost growling it. "What happened was nobody's fault, Carl. I was always gonna happen."

I narrow my eyes at him. Who does he think he is? But I soften my face, relenting, nodding. "I know."

"I just," Oliver starts, squinting so much I wonder if he's wincing. "I just don't think we can stay in one place for too long, you know? Something always happens. Sometimes it's easier to run..." He takes a breath at that, and I snap my eyes up to him, having to force back the sudden adrenaline rush at the very idea of that, and as he keeps talking his voice trails more and more. "I don't think I can anymore. Pat and I, when things would go bad, we'd run, always. Leave all the ghosts behind. But Patrick's gone... _dead..._" For a moment Oliver loses himself, and when he comes back he's forcing his smile. "But, you know, I still have this place. You and, Judith and your dad and everybody else. That's kinda everything to me."

_I like you, _I scream in my head. _I like you so much it's excruciating._

"Come on, we should get to that whole _'relaxing'_ and _'time off'_ thing your Dad thinks is so great for us."

I nod rigidly, and he scoots forwards, beside me out of the shade. Then he lies down. I hold my breath, thinking that I could reach out and touch him if I had such a death with.

"Gravel's warm."

A statement? Or an invitation to join him?  
I stay where I am.

"Kick back from the rifle yesterday," Oliver says, eyes closed, pressing his right shoulder blade harder against the floor. "Pretty sore so the heat's nice."

It _was _only a statement then, before.

I'm watching him, because he's resting his head on his arm, cupping over his eyes with his other hand for shade, squinting up at the sky. His mouth twitches, and my focus fixes on them; his lips. They're rosy and soft and closed together and thin. Too thin? Sometimes I think they are. Sometimes I think about them too much, like now. Sometimes I think about a lot of things too much. Especially when it comes to Oliver. Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to listen to his heartbeat –press my ear to his chest and feel him breathe. Sometimes, when I look at his hands, I want to push my thumb between each of his fingers and tug at his nail beds. Sometimes I look at his face. It's too long. Like his nose. Because they are. And his eyes are too brown with too many golden flecks, and they jump out at me and hook me with invisible spikes, pull me in. Sometimes when I look at his under-bite for too long I'll want to reach up and push it back for him. Sometimes I imagine brushing his hair back, making it not so wavy and floppy and brown –not so _Oliver._ Because everything about him makes me think about him more. He shouldn't be allowed to do this to me. I have more important things to hate about myself without him running around in my head rolling over cabinets and forbidden files scattering stale M&amp;M's all over the place. He shouldn't be so... _Oliver._ I should be able to push and tug and change him enough so that he is nothing like he is. Then I wouldn't have to think about him like this. Then I wouldn't want to touch his under-bite and his hair and his lips and his face and his hands.

He's so... _flawed._

He's. . .

"Erm."

. . . glancing up at me.

He's...

Wait.  
What?  
Shit!  
He's glancing up at me!

I look away, and I must've only been looking for a second because he seems not to think anything more of it, because he says. "You've got gun powder on your cheek," and I rub it off and bring my knees up to my chest self-consciously. But then Oliver pats the ground next to him, smiles with those imperfectly perfect lips. "Come here, man. Look."

He rests his head back again, motioning up to the sky. I hesitate, ignoring the blood pulsating through my ears. Oliver pats the ground again. Then when that doesn't work he reaches out and grabs my sleeve, pulling gently, so I go with it and lie back with him, resting my head on my hand, bending my leg at the knee with my other hand on my stomach. But I'm still looking at my sleeve because he's still pinching it between his fingers. He lets go slowly, the same way you push soap bubbles across water, or the same way my dad once pushed me to go the first time I rode a bike. I reach out, stop, tuck the wandering extremity back against my sternum. Then I look up, and the clouds are lumpy and white and slow.

"Looks like a walker."

Oliver scoffs, "No it..." grimaces, "oh..." then sighs, "I'm starting to think everything does eventually."

"It does." Pessimism would've been my college major.

"Maybe it could be a dog..." Optimism would've been his. "Or a fish, or something non-dead."

I frown. "Nope. Definitely a walker."

**Oliver's POV**

_I love you ridiculously. You're... _"Incorrigible."

Carl smirks, eyes on the clouds. But only his eyes. His head is firmly set on Earth. Like always. My eyes –which have been avidly wondering all over him– glide down, following the outline of his torso to his hand. "Oliver?"

I startle, look up, caught. Something's on the tip of his tongue, probably, _Why the hell are you staring at me like you want to eat me? _or, _You're creeping me out, _or, _Please stop? _

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too."

"Why?" I ask, feeling like I'm about to yack. "Why're you sorry?"

He looks away, shakes his head.

"I... I really am."

He looks at me then. . . "Why?"

My turn to look away, shake _my_ head. And that's where it ends. Well, no. That's where it ends for about sixteen seconds, and then. . .

"Shit."

His sudden, sharp and frustrated hiss, and I smirk idiotically, pretending that his cussing doesn't both amuse and shock me as I keep my eyes closed, about to ask him what's bothering him so much. But then the sun is blocked above me and before I get the chance to register what it is, Carl kisses me.

I flinch, making a noise and jutting my hand up, ball of palm colliding against throat, and he staggers back, gagging. "Jesus!"

"What the fuck?"

He stares at me –no, _glares. _His eyes wide and spectacularly blue.

"Holy shit."

"I'm sorry."

I prop myself up on my elbows, stuttering and falling over words, so I close my mouth, and he look away, but I see him scrunching his face, and he says it again, whispering it, and I can hear the humiliation and shame. It puts a rock in my throat, so I sit up properly, clumsily folding my legs underneath me. When he looks at me I look away, scratching my head and pulling at my beanie.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine." It's the only honest thing that my convulsing mind can think of to tell him.

"What?" It's only then that I realise I haven't actually spoken yet, just mumbled the words with my mouth sealed shut. Carl looks terrified. "Please?" he says shakily. "Please, can you just... say... something?"

"Yeah," I rasp, "I'm just... kinda freaking out."

There is a painfully awkward pause. Carl's back to looking away again, and I cringe. _**Really, Oliver? Really!?**_ I decide in this moment that I need to talk to him about this –get it out in the open, so I take a breath in the hope that it might keep me from suddenly bursting into a rainbow coloured explosion of genitalia-shaped confetti pieces, and sit on my knees, forcing my next words to come out.

"What's your deal, Carl?"

_**Okay, well, that might not've been the best way to start...**_

Carl scowls.

_**Try again! Try again! **_"Uh… you know?" _**Oh, God.**_ Even I grimace, unsurprised when he does, too. _**Just ask! **_"Are you into guys or girls?"

Funny, I hadn't ever thought of a more ferocious name for a frown than scowling. But what his expression does now is worse, scorning, and it's so fast and brutal that I startle. "I'm not gay!" is what he barks first, and I pull a face like, _Well shit no need to be a bitch about it! _and then, his face changes, as suddenly as the last time but about a thousand times softer. "I-I mean… I don't know…" Ferociousness is back again, only this time he looks like he might cry, too, "Fuck, why d'you have to put a label on it? Shit, why does it have to matter?"

To say I'm surprised is an understatement. For one, I've never heard him swear so much in one sentence. And two, _wait, what? _And three, _holyshitholyshitholyshit!_ I sit forward a little, leaning on my hands. The gravel is hot and it dents my palms and fingertips. "No, it doesn't matter. I was just, you know, curious. Because you just – uh. I-I mean, _I_ don't even know either."

"Really?"

_Sh__**i**__t, s__**hit**__! _My arms cross, and I'm glaring like he was. "Shit, man. No need to get so fucking mad at me. Who the hell pissed in your cereal?"

"Look..." Carl yells at me, and I watch as his lips shake. "I like you."

I'm not really sure what happens to me in this moment. I sort of switch off. Because I'm sat in my cell late at night and I'm reading a news paper and the headline reads: _BREAKING NEWS CARL GRIMES TELLS OLIVER HE LIKES HIM _and the paparazzi photograph is taken from the trees on the other side of the fence of us both staring at each other like one might grow another head that's about to lunge forward and chomp into the other's throat.

"Oliver." Carl brings me back, kicking and screaming, only on the outside I just blink. "I _really_ like you." _Nope. Nope. Dead. That's me. Dead like the rest of them. _"And I don't know if I'm supposed to and I can't… _talk,_ to anyone about it because nobody else… _thinks_ like this. Nobody else thinks like _I_ do!"

I'm completely speechless and my mouth is hanging open and I'm trying to form words but my brain is exploding.

"And..." He's glaring again, gritting his teeth. "And I can never tell if you…" He cringes, cheeks the colour of scarlet. "_Might,_ like me, too. Because you're always so damn s-"

I don't let him finish. What I _do_ do lacks any type of rational or sensible thinking. Just an alarmingly unpredictable mixture of adrenaline, impulse, and testosterone that is probably more hazardous than helpful. But it doesn't matter, and there's no turning back now, because I'm kissing him, and I have no idea what I'm doing and I don't know if Carl even wants me to even though he kissed me first because Carl Grimes is like a tame bear because no matter how well trained or how many chains he's tied with or how many people's expectations he wants to live up to he's always going to be one of the most unpredictable creatures in the world.

So, I don't move –literally. _I don't move. _In such a way that it's awkward and uncomfortable and embarrassing, lips pressed and closed, waiting and waiting and waiting for him to shove me away or smack _me _in the throat, too. But more eternal moments pass in agonising silence, and I can hear the machinery in his brain churning and spinning and grinding to a stand still. But then he relaxes, exhales, and at first he draws back the littlest bit so that we're barely touching, his breath hitching, and it scares me so much I start pulling away. But his hand comes up, touching my chin, tugging, and the skin of our lips brush again, hardly at all for the shortest moment, and then that exploding feeling suddenly takes me over and we're kissing.

Really, really kissing.

It soon becomes apparent to me that kissing isn't very easy unless you open your mouth at least a little, and my hand moves up, touching heat as it finds the curve of his cheek, and I can feel his pulse under my fingertips, my own heart racing. When he pulls away, and I'm breathing so hard that his fringe puffs up away from his forehead, and the blue is blinding. Brilliantly.

I'm breathless. But in a new way. A way that doesn't make me feel like my windpipe is closing on itself. I don't know how to explain it other than it feels curious and unpredictable and just... really, really good. I consider kissing him again, craving that breathless feeling to amplify, but I get nervous because of the whole _I'm a teenage boy _thing, and so I just keep watching him because it's usually pretty hard not to do that anyway, and for a while Carl seems to study me, his pupils almost hiding the blue behind them, just a few millimetres of his colour visible.

Then he kisses me, moving to kneel down right beside me so our left legs are in contact –which isn't really anything of note, but at the same time it kind of really is when something like this happens. Because I'm hyper sensitive. Every hair and every breath leaves as much impact as getting hit with a sack of bricks. It makes us both forget the mild argument we were just having, and the kissing is awkward and awful and inexperienced and totally totally awesome.

My fingers are tangled into his hairline on his nape, heat radiating off of it from the sun. It almost burns. Carl's palm is against my cheek, and even though we're not kissing anymore he's pulling me closer to him, and the goose-bumps are rippling all the way across my body. He smiles, and my eyebrows arch in some kind of spinning feeling that I've never experienced before, drowning in it, and it's so intense that I get dizzy and light headed. So, of course, the only cure I can come up with is to kiss him again, and it helps. It _really _helps. Maybe it lasts for just a few seconds, minutes, _days_ even. I have no idea. It's impossible to tell. But eventually we let our lips part with a loud cliché _smack_. I would laugh, but I'm too giddy, so instead I open my eyes, grin, and he's grinning, too, exchanging our hurried breaths.

Then I laugh, thinking, _OhGodthatactuallyjusthappened! _then remember to speak, panting, "I'm. I'm so damn what?"

". . . Sarcastic," he laughs breathlessly. "Oliver… you're so damn sarcastic."

Is it odd to think he's kind of totally beautiful. I mean, I know guys aren't supposed to be _beautiful,_ but I can't think of another word.

"Oliver?"

"Yeah."

"What's your last name?"

It only occurs to me now that he doesn't know. _**Oliver, I don't think anyone does. **_I'm not sure how I've gotten away with this; going this whole time without anyone knowing. Patrick never told anyone, either, and it's not like its some big secret or anything –like if I reveal it I'll give up some massive mystery or whatever. It's just not a particularly vital part of an individual anymore. So, it kind of means a lot that Carl is interested enough to ask.

"It's De Luca."

A wide smile spreads across Carl's lips. The corners of his eyes crinkle. "I like it," he nods in approval. "Suits you."

"Yeah?"

"Oliver De Luca," he tries it out, testing how it feels on his tongue, the very tongue that was just invading my mouth. My mind trails. _**Oliver, focus. **_"Is it Spanish?"

"Italian. Mom's side. Dad took her surname when they married."

"D'you know any?"

"What – Italian?"

"Yeah." I nod, and his eyebrows lift, then he says, "Can you say something?"

I laugh, letting my eyes roll to the back of my head in thought, and then I clear my throat, sitting up. "_I piatti non lavare senza di te._"

"Wh-what does it mean?" He kind of struggles to ask it, and his pupils blow to hide the last few slivers of blueness, so, naturally, I can't help but laugh.

"The dishes won't wash themselves," I translate.

"Oh."

I think that was a little less climactic than he thought it would be. Regardless Carl grins at me, glances at my lips. I purse them, getting the feeling he wants to kiss again and butterflies explode in my stomach. But I pretend not to notice, standing up. "Come on. We should head back."

I say, holding my hand out for him and he looks like he'll protest, but he relents, takes my hand, so I pull him up. We sort of stand there for a moment, watching each other. _**What will Carl want after this?**__ I don't know. __**Well, what do we do now though? Will he tell anyone? Or, will we just go back to being friends for a while?**__ I don't want to just go back though..._

My eyes are jumping between his, and Carl's do the same, until finally he does the last thing I ever expected –even after what just happened, and hugs me. I smile, hugging him back, burying my face into the crook of his neck.

"Thank you."

I close my eyes, breathe. . . "For what?"

"I don't know. Just... Thanks."

I've never really thought of Carl as sweet before, but seeing him this nervous _is _sweet. "You're welcome, man, guess... uh, thank you, too?" He's laughing. I can feel his chest jolting. "You big sap."

"What do we do now?"

"I don't know… I guess we just figure it out."

Carl pulls away, watches me, nods, lifts a hand and motions behind us. "We should go. Chores." He looks away and winces, anxious. "Are you gonna tell anybody?"

I watch him, shake my head, "Not if you don't want me to."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I get it."

"One day," he almost interrupts. "But, not yet. I'm not... ashamed... I'm just not sure I can say–"

"I get it."

He nods, still not looking at me, and without another word Carl heads back to the Prison, pulling, because despite his confliction he's still holding my hand, fingers laced, tightening, so I walk with him. When we spot Michonne in the parking lot getting ready to burn the bodies we let go of each other. I know that I could never be ashamed of liking Carl like this. But like he said, we're not ready for people to know. We still have to figure it out ourselves.

"I'm gonna see if she wants a hand," I say.

"Oh."

He won't be allowed to go out, too –Rick would never allow it. I glance over at Patrick's grave, his glasses tucked against the rock. "I have to."

"I know, Oliver." Of course he does.

I lift my hands to either side of his head, and Carl doesn't protest, so, gently, I pull and plant a kiss on his forehead. He suppresses a smile, blushing. Cute.

"I'll... go find Dad."

"See you, man."

He hesitates, and then, like he couldn't help himself, he step closer and whispers, "Stay safe," to me, then turns, quickly walks back towards C-Block. I turn, too, finding Michonne hauling the last few corpses into the truck-trailer.

"Can I join you?"

"Sure. Glad to have an extra hand."

So I get on that. Rick walks over a few minutes later, splashing his face in the trough water before-hand, "You need some help with that?" he asks, rubbing the water over his nape. Michonne smiles, but declines.

"Sir?" I pipe up. "Carl was looking for you."

He nods. "Alright. Thanks, Oliver."

I nod back, kind of blushing because I'm thinking about what me and his son just did together –trying not to think of what Rick would do if he found out about it. But I push the thoughts away and help fill the truck.

* * *

"You headin' out?" It's Hershel.

I nod and Michonne walks over to him. "You wanna come?"

"Hell yeah!"

I grin, and Hershel climbs into the back, struggling a little while he takes a seat between a rotting arm and torso. Michonne nudges my shoulder, "Hop in."

"Mr. Greene, I can ride in the back if you want."

"Ah, one leg never stopped me."

"Yes, sir."

"Call me, Hershel, son."

I grin, nod, waving and climbing in the passenger seat. It takes me off guard when I see the way Michonne is looking at me, and my smile drops self-consciously. "What?"

When she doesn't answer right away, I frown, nudge her elbow. She cocks her eyebrow, says, "You mean a lot to him, you know that?"

"I think he has a cool beard."

"No, not Hershel –well, I mean, he thinks you're great'n all but I'm talking about Carl." Not sure why it took her explaining it for me to get that. "He's always talking about you. You two're like a package deal, huh?"

"Erm. Guess?"

"It's cute."

Wait, Michonne doesn't talk like this. She doesn't smile like she can read minds –_**Yes she does. **_She doesn't call things cute –_**Yeah, yeah that's definitely a first. **_Despite that fact she's kidding I'm not laughing at all, instead staring, cheeks burning.

"What it's true."

Again, she is only joking, but my mouth falls open and I clamber over words I haven't planned to say yet, regretting ever deciding to join at all. _Did she see us? __**No, she couldn't have. **__We were in the courtyard. No one could have seen unless they were outside._

"Would you two stop chin waggin'?" Hershel complains. "We got a job to do."

My mouth shuts, looking out of the window, and I hear her suppress a chuckle, starting the engine, and we drive down to the main gates and all the while I'm fidgeting and nervous and blushing and hiding it with my palms. We exit the prison –the first time I have since I was driven through, and at first it overwhelms me, but I come down from my adrenaline rush, thinking about what Carl said as a distraction. Because he's right. We don't need to label ourselves. I'm Oliver De Luca and he's Carl Grimes. Simple as. In truth I'm kind of excited, and totally terrified, too. After loosing my brother so suddenly it's only made me realise how unpredictable the limited time I have with everyone really is, especially with Carl, and so now it's going to be about trying to smile at the little things and getting our breath back and figuring ourselves out, talking, being... and kissing. Hopefully lots and lots of kissing.

* * *

Michonne parks a few miles out in the middle of the woods and the three of us help pull bodies out and set them down on a small clearing ahead, piling them up. I try not to look at the faces.

"I'll get the gasoline."

"'Kay."

I haul out two, large, red, gas containers, carrying them to the pile of walkers, handing one to Michonne before we start pouring. When my barrel's empty I step back and sit on the boot of the truck with Hershel, taking my inhaler. He puts his hand on my shoulder, and though I'd never say so aloud, it's comforting.

"You did good, son. Not jus' here, either."

"You did good, too, Hershel."

Hershel laughs quietly, the, _We'll be alright _kind, and I believe him. Michonne empties the last of her barrel and walks over, holds out her hand, and Hershel fishes out his matches and hands them over, and we all walk over to the bodies. Michonne lights a match and throws it.

_FWOOMP_

We watch them burn, silently paying tribute with a moment of silence. I think of my brother.

_I'll miss you, Pat._

Michonne turns and walks back to the truck, and I follow, Hershel, too, who pats my shoulder, and I turn to him, smile. Then something thuds in front of me, and I see Hershel's expression drop, staring past me, so I look, too. But faster than I can understand, Michonne is unconscious at my feet and a tall dark figure is towering over her, over me, too –no, over the whole world. His arm draws back, and I see the shine of the revolver in his grip, the word, "Hershel," barely passing my breath before it is slammed against my right temple.

_CRACK!_

I hit the ground, wincing, throes of pain rocketing through my skull. Something warm and wet and red streams down my cheek, filling my ear and eyeball. I scrunch them – my eyes, thinking, _hurts hurts hurts! _and then I hear something move, and I try to open my eyes. I try to move my hands and legs. I try to focus on the ground and I try even harder to focus on not sinking into it, but

* * *

**Notes**

Unfinished sentence was intentional. Promise. It's supposed to be a shitty example of the foreshadowing before when Oliver said that ending a story mid-sentence is barbaric :) whoo!

Update a year after posting this: Oliver originally died here, but apparently some of you didn't want that xD thank you infinitely.

Thanks to **Nora** and **Eli** for reviewing, too! You guys rock! XXX

As always,  
H


	13. Too Far Gone, Part 2: The Fall

_One thing wrong with this site, it won't let me reply to reviews, so I will just do it here like some others do :)_

**Eli** Thank you, yeah, I wanted their relationship to be slow and to work its way in there :) if you wanna read the rest (as the story is up to season 5 now) go check it out on the walking dead fanfiction site X

**Prettyprincess45 **hehe, thanks x and thanks for the heads up about the duff chappy x and I'm glad to hear that you already read my story and took the time to review xxx

**Nora **Thank you so much! I will! xx

**westerlo4 **WESTERLO4! XD nuf said.

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Dad wasn't in C-Block. Sasha told me that I'd just missed him so I head over to the Office Blocks, but when he isn't there either I quickly go to mine and Oliver's office to grab my hat, noticing that Oliver left his beanie in here, too, so I stuff it into my back pocket and head back out. Dad'll be in the gardens, probably; back to Playing Farmer.

The Office Block corridor is brighter than usual, and I'm grinning, drifting in and further in to thoughts of Oliver, again. I think about what it felt like kissing him. I think about what it will be like kissing him again. I think about if kissing is like that for everyone. Maybe it's only like that with Oliver. Maybe it's the way he kisses with his jaw and lower lip, or maybe it's the way he held my face in his palm. Either way, and I'd never say this out loud, it was good –for lack of a better word. I get to wondering what other people would think about it all. If they'd think anything of it at all. What would Dad do? He'd... No, I don't have a clue what he would do. Not having a clue makes my stomach churn. For a moment I try to tell myself to stop thinking like this, that maybe I'm making a mistake, that I've been spending too much time in the vegetable garden getting cloudy on carrot and manure fumes. Wrong and not farmer enough. It's the same thing I've been telling myself for months. But then I get to thinking about it, and I realise again, and again, that I don't _want_ Oliver and I to stop. At all.

I really like Oliver.

I _really_ like him.

And... I think it's okay to be okay with that.

Dad is heading down the driveway to the gates. I almost startle. But then I realise he hasn't noticed me yet, neither can he read my mind, so I break into a run after him, passing Michonne and Oliver in the parking lot as they fill up the truck with last night's walkers. Oliver's busy lugging a particularly large-looking walker into the boot so he doesn't see me.

"Hey," I call. "You didn't wake me up."

Dad turns and squints. "Thought I'd let you sleep in," he says. I stand in front of him to get him to stop. "I told Oliver to have a few hours off this mornin'. He said he'd tell you too when you woke up."

"He did."

"Thought you two could use the break – spend time playing soccer, read, y'know, settle." I'm nodding, blushing stupidly. "You both had a good mornin' then?"

I nod, blushing darker. When Dad gives me a suspicious look I have to look away, "We were in the courtyard," I mumble. "Talking."

"What about?"

"Stuff," I say. . . "and, uh, things." I shake my head and clear my throat. "But I should help, Dad."

"Good. I gotta go talk to Daryl."

"Right now?"

Odd as it sounds, I was kind of hoping that we could just go and do something normal. This morning has been so confusing already. I just wanted to do something to distract me from it all, even if that something is playing farmer. Apparently this is surprising to Dad, too, because for a second he's just smiling at me.

"No," he says softly, pats my shoulder with his gardening gloves. "Let's go."

So we do, and a little while later Michonne and the others are leaving to burn the bodies. I watch them, touching a bean plant. It's soft, like Oliver's lips. I'm about to cringe at myself when I notice Dad holding out a pea pod to me. I take it, pick out a pea and taste, and it's sweet and fresh and soft.

In the distance the truck disappears past the tree-line.

I get on with my chores. When Dad and I are done he tells me I can go see Judith, so I all but skip through the Office Blocks to find her, still smiling, because aside from simply being glad to be able to see Judith I am, again, thinking of Oliver. I'm picturing his face when he sees Judith again, and then I'm thinking about the next time it'll be that I kiss him again. I'm imagining bumping into him as I head back from chores or while he's making his way to Story Time, and in my head we steal a kiss right there in the hallway. Then, deeper in my head, I'm pulling him into a deserted classroom or closet and kissing him where no one will find us, and I like it. Really really. But then I stop because in my head the kissing becomes something else and this isn't the time–

"Carl."

I startle. It's Maggie. I grin when I see my little sister in her arms. Beth is there, too, sat at the desk in the foyer. "Judy!" Then I'm snatching her from Maggie's arms and kissing her forehead so much that she tries to pry herself away from me, and then I'm mumbling to her and Judith is listening to me and snuggling into my chest, and I'm cooing and trying too hard not to cry.

"She missed you," Beth says. She also might be crying.

"Uh, y-yeah." I can feel my cheeks burning, because I am pretty sure that neither Greene has ever seen me so excited. "Thanks… you know? For looking after her for the past few days."

"I'm jus' glad everything's gonna be okay now," Beth says, resting her head on Maggie's shoulder. I let Judith grab my thumb. She babbles something at it. I laugh.

"How's your dad, after everything?" Maggie asks me dubiously.

"He's gonna be alright," I answer. "How's Glenn? Is he still in A-Block?"

"Yeah. I was jus' in there with 'im. Jus' needs his rest. But he'll be okay," she says. "I think everything's gonna be alri–"

An explosion.

It shakes the walls. The ceiling above crumbles. The adrenaline rush turns me to ice. Someone screams. Someone else, too. Judith wails hysterically and I grip her tighter. "What happened?"

Lizzie and Mika hurtle around the corner to us, shortly followed by Luke and Molly. They look terrified. Mika throws herself into Beth's arms, crying.

"Carl, c'mon!" Maggie shouts over the screaming. I panic for a moment, torn between her and my sister. "You can't take her with you!"

Beth tries to take her, but I refuse, only to realise I have no choice. "L-Lizzie," she mutters. "Take Judith." Lizzie nods, gulping as she's handed my crying sibling. "You got her?!"

"Y-yeah. I'll get her baby carrier."

"Okay."

"Keep 'er safe!" I say.

"I will," she gasps.

"Lizzie!" Mika cries. "C'mon." Then the rest of the children are rushing away to find the baby carrier. Judith peers over Lizzie's shoulder, overwhelmed and innocent and afraid, and I prey to God it won't be the last time I see her. But I know I have to go, so I spin on my heel and hurtle after Beth and Maggie. I catch up with them just as they get outside, and we run across the gravel and out into the front courtyard. Dad is leaving C-Block opposite, Daryl and Tyreese, too.

"Get back!" Dad shouts, his gun drawn. It's a few moments before I understand what everybody is looking at. But I see the guard tower, or rather, I see where it should be. But it's blown away now. Just the tall structure with no top. But then I see what has caused it, and I see them... then him.

The Governor.

A merciless looking tank sits in the centre of the crowd of trucks, all lined up along the outside of the fences. The monster is perched in the tank, preparing his militia. _No, _I think._ No, no, no, no. __But you__'__re__ dead… __You__'__ve__ been gone for months. _Only now do I truly understand the great difference between dead and gone. If he was dead he wouldn't be back. But he was only gone, for a time, because to be gone means that there is still a possibility of return… and he has. Just like our nightmares warned us he would.

"RICK!"

I flinch. We all do.

"Come down here," the Governor yells. "We need to talk."

Dad shifts his weight on his hips. His breath shortens. He's panicking. I know why. I know what this means. For a long time we all have. "It's not up to me!" Dad shouts. "There's a Council now, they run this place!"

"Hershel, on the Council?"

My stomach lurches to my throat. One of the Governor's soldiers goes over to one of the trucks. She holds out her arm and Hershel steps out of the vehicle, limping, and she pulls him to stand in front of the tank. Maggie clasps her hand over her mouth and Beth's whole body shudders. I feel it, because she'd blown up like a balloon and brushed my arm. I don't know what I'm doing, but it hurts, all over.

"What about Michonne? She on the Council, too?" He's mocking us, and all we can do it watch as another soldier grabs Michonne from a truck and pulls her to stand next to Hershel. "Surely, this... _Council..._ o' yours, Rick, wouldn't be so irresponsible as to put a child at risk, too?"

My eyes are wide and my knees are knocking now. A third soldier pulls a very weak and a very bruised Oliver out from the truck Hershel was inside of. He'd been slouched on his side, so nobody had seen him until now. Someone whispers his name. I only realise it was me when Tyreese's hand presses to my shoulder, and I grab it automatically, then let go, panicking, suppressing, horrified. Unable to move. Unable to think. Unable to feel. I just watch helplessly as all three of my friends are made to kneel down in front of the tank. This isn't real. This isn't happening. I don't want to lose anybody else I don't want to lose anybody else. Crimson trickles down Oliver's face, bleeding through his bandage.

"I don't make decisions anymore!" Dad shouts.

"You're making the decisions today, Rick," the Governor says. "Come down here an' let's have that talk."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"Don't touch me!"  
_What?_

"Stay still."  
_Who is that?_

"Get off!"

I came to at Michonne's growl, feeling confused and dazed. I tried to sit up but whimpered when my right temple turned inside out. Shit, it hurt. It hurt bad. The pain was almost unbearable. I didn't remember what happened, and I didn't know where I was or where Hershel and Michonne were, and when I tried to hold my head I realised my hands were bound.

"Oliver." It was Hershel, somewhere in the same room. He sounded worried and relieved and tired. "You alright?"

I couldn't answer him yet. The pain was too bad. When I opened my eyes I only saw a hazy dark figure that I didn't recognise. But the pain became too much to keep my eyes open any longer.

"Glad you finally decided to join us." A stranger; male, Southern, dry... dangerous. "Thought I was gonna need to put a blade in your head for a while."

To be honest I was fairly sure he already had. I managed to open my eyes, squinting and grunting and focusing to meet an eye patch, a grey eye to accompany its opposite. Cold and soulless; that was my first impression as I saw him. But I recognised him instantly.

"I apologise," the Governor told me. He was smiling. "I didn't mean to hit you so hard back there."

I doubled over when my head hurt too bad. I wanted to touch it but couldn't. Some parts were wet and warm and numb, and other parts were dry and sticky and painful. I rubbed it with my shoulder, but I almost yelped when a wave of unwelcomed warm ran down my face. Blood. By the feel of it, and the smeared red on the floor where my face was, I knew I was still bleeding.

_Too much?_

_**Any much is too much, man.**_

"Let's get you cleaned up," he said, and took my arm, pulled me to sit up, and my wrists pulled against the restraints, bound behind my back. When I couldn't sit properly with them the Governor untied them. I wanted to do something, shove him back and find a weapon, but I was useless, and when Hershel shook his head for me not to I knew he'd done it more to relieve me from the responsibility rather than anything else. So my hands were bound again, in front of me this time. When I tried to touch my temple the Governor yanked my hands down. I may have blacked out again, and I may have yacked, too, but either way the next thing I knew I was leant against the wall glaring at him. The new development was that my legs had been tied together, though after a second he untied them for me, said, "Precautions. I can't have you turnin' and killin' your friends."

I winced, not only from the pain but at the thought. He placed the rope on the table and proceeded to dab a wet rag over my temple, the fabric came away bright red and with parts of earth and leaves in it, and when he'd wiped as much as he bothered to, he cleaned the cut area with some anti-septic spray. I flinched.

"Hold still," he said, but not before roughly slapping a large band-aid over the gash on my temple. I almost doubled over, but I caught myself. "I'm only tryina help you."

"Thanks," I hissed. The Governor tensed his jaw. I'd have called it a grin, but I couldn't convince myself that he was capable of one. In his hand, he rolled a chess piece between his fingers. He was staring at me. I stared back. . . "_Sir._"

"Sarcastic… Oliver… you're so damn sarcastic."

My face dropped, and I swore to God every organ in my body piled down into my feet. My head span and my breath shortened. He had been watching us. He'd been watching all of us. For weeks. How long was he planning this?! It was psychopathic! I wasn't sure why it took me so long to finally understand that I needed to be very afraid of the man in front of me. His mouth curled into a grin that looked more like a snarl. He stood up and headed over to Hershel, pulled him up by his bindings from the other room and made him sit on the seat beside Michonne to my left.

"You should eat." The Governor took something wrapped in foil out of his pocket, still holding the king piece in his hand, then dropped the foiled object into Hershel's lap. "It's gonna be a long day. Nobody's gonna hurt you."

He sat on the other couch and rummaged through some medical equipment. Hershel glanced at me, gave me an _'Are you alright?'_ look, and I looked away.

"I don't believe that," he told the Governor.

"I don't care."

"Jus' tell us what this is. Please?" Hershel tried again. But the Governor didn't stop sorting through his equipment. We were inside a camper van, I realised.

"It isn't personal."

"Then what is it?" Hershel asked. The Governor ignored him.

"Michonne, I want you to know… Penny. My daughter… she was dead. I know that now. I don't wanna hurt you. I don't wanna hurt anyone. I need the Prison, that's it. There're people that I need to keep alive. And you three're gonna help me take it. No one needs to die."

"I'm gonna kill you," Michonne said slowly.

"No you won't," the Governor told her.

"I am gonna take y–" _your other eye out and feed it to you,_ is what I wanted her to finish with. But Hershel cut her off.

"Stop it," he scolded, softly, then turned to our kidnapper. "You want the Prison?"

"I'll take it. As peacefully as I can."

"Governor?"

"Don't call me that."

". . . Your people," Hershel said. "Our people. We can find a way to live together. These people you need to keep alive, do you love 'em?" The Governor looked at him briefly, but went back to sorting his medical equipment.

"You're a good man, Hershel. Better man than Rick."

"Everything you've said. The way you've said it – you've changed. So has Rick." The Governor let out a tired sigh, like he'd had enough and wanted to go home. "The two of us, will never be able to live together. Michonne and I… will never be able to live together."

"We'll find a wa–"

"I'VE FOUND A WAY!"

I winced. The Governor saw, softened his face like it took a lot of effort.

"I'm tryin' hard. All kinds o' ways I could do this. This way you get to live, and I get to be..."

I thought he would finish, but he stopped, stood, walked to the door.

"You say you want to, take this prison as peacefully as possible?" It was Hershel's last try to convince him. The Governor was standing half way in and out of the camper van door. "That means you'd be willing to hurt people to get it. My daughters would be there. _That's_ who you'd be hurting. If you understand what its like to have a daughter, then how can you threaten to kill someone else's?"

There was a long pause, and for a moment, I thought the Governor would change his mind, but his next words played through my head over and over again for hours. . .

"Because they aren't mine."

He stepped out of the camper van and closed the door behind him.

* * *

"Let 'em go, right now," Rick pleads. "I'll stay down here. Talk as long as you want. But you let 'em go. You got a tank. You don't need hostages."

"I do," the Governor replies. "This is jus' to show you I'm serious. Not to blast a hole in our new home. You an' your people have 'til sundown to get out o' here. Or they die."

"It doesn't have to go down this way."

"I got more people. More fire power," he tells Rick. "We need this prison."

Rick is panicking. Furious. Helpless.

"There it is," the Governor says. "It's not about the past. It's about right now."

"There are children here. Some of them are sick. They won't survive!"

"I have a tank! An' I'm letting you walk away from here. What else is there to talk about?" the Governor shouts. I watch Rick's mind work overtime, desperate, trying and trying and trying. "I can shoot you all. An' ya'll'll shoot back, I know that. An' we'll win and you'll be dead. All o' you… But it doesn't have to be like that. Like I said, it's your choice, Rick."

I hear shrieking from a few walkers coming to investigate. _He's gonna let them get us. Is this why he's lined __us__ up here? So that he can make our friends watch us get ripped apa–_

_**PKOW!**_

The walker I was staring at falls to the earth. The second and third, too, with more bullets.

"Noise'll only draw more of 'em over," the Governor says. He grows impatient at Rick's silence and looks up to the sky, squinting. _Why doesn't someone shoot him now? Daryl? Maggie? Bob? Carl's a good shot. He could do it. He could end this. __**Don't be a dick, Oliver. If Carl or anyone shot **__**t**__**he Governor right now his soldiers would tare home apart. Just... trust Rick. He can do this. **_"You got maybe... an hour o' sunlight left? I suggest you start packing." Rick moves his head, I would say he is nodding but I can see that his mind just can't accept this. "The longer you wait. The harder it'll be for you to get out o' here.".

I can feel my throat tightening, but I can't use my inhaler. Not here. I can't even reach it. So I just watch Rick, relying on him.

"We can all…" Rick begins, but the doubt in his words forces him to stop and regain his composure. "We can all live together. There's enough room for all of us."

"More than enough. But I don't think my family would sleep well, knowin' that you… were under the same roof."

We could say the same for him. All of them.

"We'd live in different cell blocks," Rick tries. "We'd never have to see each other, 'till we're all ready."

"It could work," Hershel encourages. "You know it could!"

"It coulda," the Governor. "But it can't. Not after Woodbury… Not after Andrea."

Michonne grimaces. I look at her, resisting the urge to cough up my lungs, but she's furious. I know the story. I look at the grass again. The grass has always been my friend. The grass has never hurt me. The grass doesn't take hostages or blow up guard towers. It just minds its own business and grows under our feet, always there, always alive.

"Look, I'm not sayin' it'll be easy," Rick debates. "Fact is, it's gonna be a hell of a lot harder than s-standin' here, shootin' at each other. But I don't think we have a choice."

"We don't. You do."

Rick becomes desperate. His face contorts and he has to look away for a moment, but he calms down enough to reply almost immediately. "We're not leaving. Try your forces. We'll fight back." He nods as he talks, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index. "Like you said, gunshots'll jus' bring more of'm out. They'll take down the fences, and without the fences this place is worthless."

I can't stop myself from coughing. Coughing so hard someone asks if I'm alright. It's Hershel. He's growled at by the guy behind him. I don't stop coughing. Rick says my name when I double forward, hitting the ground, heaving too badly to reply. Somebody shoves me up and tells me to get a grip. I think I ask for an inhaler, _"__In my pocket, please?"_ and she's got brown wavy hair and brown eyes that almost look sorry, but when I beg again she walks away.

"Now," Rick pleads. "We can all, live in the Prison, or none of us can."

The Governor leaps down from the tank. Michonne's katana is drawn from its sheath and he storms over to us. I scrunch up my eyes, bunch my shoulders, hold my breath, so, so, so afraid. He passes us, muttering, "I'll fix the damn fences," as he stops directly behind Hershel.

_**No. **No don't!_

It's only then that I realise I said it aloud, because my legs move without my say so, "N- _a__ck_!" but a hard blow to the crook of my neck with the butt end of a rifle sends me into the earth again. I almost black out. The only reason I don't is because I see the guy who hit me. He looks around, almost like he didn't mean to do that, but either way I'm scowling at him. He has my machete, sheathed against his back in a leather strap.

_Dick-swatter. _I have a right mind to say this to him._** Don't be stupid, Oliver. You'll only make things worse.**_ I grunt when more red bleeds into my eyes. The Governor narrows his eyes at me, but seeing everything is in order again he looks back to Hershel, and the steel blade touches his throat.

"You!" Rick shouts desperately. "You, in the pony tails – is this what you want? Is this what any of you want?!"

_Pony Tails, _the woman he's talking to, looks terrified... confused. He's lied to them, just like the stories. Just like he did before at Woodbury.

"What we want is what you got! Period," a man, Mitch, situated inside the tank manning the cannon says. "Time for you to leave ass hole!"

"Look," Rick insists. "I've fought him before. An' after, we took in his old friends. They've become leaders in what we have here! Now if you put down your weapons. An' walk through those gates, you're one of us."

Nobody says anything, so Rick keeps talking. . .

"We let go of all of this. And nobody dies. Everyone is alive right now. Everyone has made it this far. We've all done worse kinds o' things just to stay alive! But we can still come back. We're not too far gone."

I watch him, desperate and terrified and believing him so much it hurts.

"We get to come back."

"_You're okay, Carl," _I told him. _"__Maybe you haven't come back from it all yet. But you will... and you'll be okay."_

"I know. We all. Can change."

The world lets Rick's words hang in the air. Only for a moment. But everything is still, for a moment. The Governor allows the weapon to lower from Hershel's neck, for a moment. But that moment has to end eventually. Like every moment does. It's how it works. But this time, when it does, it feels like the whole world breaks into a thousand pieces along with it. . .

"Liar."

It is all the monster whispers, right before he swings the stolen katana through Hershel's neck.

There is a _shlink! _and a gargle, and all I do is watch. Warm splatters my face, and the crimson circle grows across Hershel's collar, and, slowly, the old man drops to the grass like a rock. I was wrong. The grass isn't my friend anymore. The grass turns red and wet and evil, and Hershel is choking in it. I can feel it. The great crack in my existence. I've felt it before, the night Mom turned. Then I saw it again the next morning in my father. Then again and again with everybody I've watched die, whether I cared for them all or not. Every time it rips right through me, through everything.

The noise is what attacks me first. Two ear splitting screams. Maggie and Beth. And then Rick's roar –"NO!" and then it's the gunfire. Everywhere. Loud and deadly and constant. I haven't looked away from Hershel. He's still alive. I think I'm crying, or screaming, I'm not sure. I can't check and feel my face because my hands are bound behind me, but I still try to reach out to him, my whole body shaking.

"Hershel?"

I am shoved back. It hurts so bad I cry out, but it's Michonne.

"Michonne," I say, or, I think I do. I can't tell if my mouth is moving. "His neck. He's hurting."

"Go!" she growls, and when I just stare at her she shoves me to the ground, dropping herself, too. When she starts barrel rolling in my direction I haven't a choice but to roll, too. "To the trucks," she orders. I'm still crying. "Oliver, keep going!"

When I get behind a truck I force myself to my feet. Michonne is stood before me, and she yanks me up, and we run in tandem, trying desperately to weave our way through the chaos. Michonne finds a broken number plate on the back of a truck and uses it to cut her binds. A spray of bullets hit the car next to me and I duck behind it. Michonne tells me to stay there and wait for her, so I do. She's almost done when I see a man running towards her.

"Michonne look out!"

He grabs her, knocking her to the floor. I'm not sure of everything that happens but I know he's going to shoot her, and I'm scrambling, terrified, and my foot comes in contact with his jaw. When he falls to his back I kicked him again, only this time I bring my foot down into the centre of his face. I feel the crack. But I don't stop, and after the fourth or fifth blow he passes out, and then, after the sixth or twentieth, his skull completely caves in under my sneaker. I only do stop when Michonne is shouting so much that she has to shove me to the floor, screaming at me to stop, and I'm sobbing and screaming because my blue sneaker is bright red and bits of brain and bone are stuck between my laces and toes. _IkilledhimIkilledhimIkilledhim. __**What did you do?! **_Panic over takes me. I roll over onto my front, retching and gagging. I clutch my mouth when Michonne has cut them free for me.

"Oliver, your machete."

I look at her. She motions down to my victim, grabbing my machete from him and forcefully strapping it around my torso and yelling at me when I try to refuse. So I rub my sore wrists, the skin red and raw and marked, and I'm coughing again.

"GO THROUGH THE FENCES!" the Governor roars. "IN YOUR CARS! GER YOUR GUNS! WE GO IN!"

"C'mon," she says over the gunfire, pulling me behind another truck. The engine starts and again she has to lead me away. "We gotta go."

"W-we can't leave them all."

"Oliver. We gotta go!"

"We c-can't!" I fight against her, wincing when her hands tighten around my wrist, pulling me to the trees. "W-we can't!"

"KILL THEM ALL!"

"Get _down_!" Michonne hisses. It's a hard shove, and I'm flattened into the long grass, and all we can do is watch the soldiers advance towards the fences. The crash bulldozes through my eardrums. The tank drives over the fence like it's made of paper, and the trucks follow. There's nothing anyone can do.

They're in the gardens and the paddocks. Flame screams, and she's so afraid that when she leaps over the paddock fence knocks it over completely, and she falls badly, clambering to get to her hooves and screaming again when she can't manage it. I've never heard a horse scream before. It makes Michonne flinch. A few walkers have followed through the fence, and they target the mare. She's broken her leg, I realise, because it bends at the wrong angle now, so there isn't anything she can do while she is grabbed by the tail and flanks and muzzle, torn into and spread across the earth. Familiar faces and strange ones scatter across the Prison, retreating and taking cover in the battle. It's hard to tell the difference between enemy, friend, or undead. There are too many. The prison bus is parked on the other side of the courtyard, facing away from the oncoming soldiers, and I make out people rushing to file onto it. _**Good. Get somewhere safe. Be okay? Please? **_I'm searching for his sheriffs' hat. But I don't see him anywhere. _Please let him be okay? Please? God. Where is he?! _I spot Rick. But the Governor got there first. He's brutal. Pinning him to the floor and serving punch after punch, choking him.

"Michonne," I whisper, pointing.

She's already seen him. She has her katana, too. She holds a finger up to her lips and shushes me, and I nod, follow her, my machete drawn. I've never seen Michonne like this. Her face is hard and blank and distant, like she's flipped a switch. She's almost behind the Governor now, and I'm watching from behind the overturned bus. Rick is slowing, fighting the hands grasped around his throat.

_**End this…**_

And then she does. . .

_Shik!_

"Ack."

I flinch, watch his whole body jerk up straight with the red end of the blade impaled through his heart. Michonne yanks it out and lets him collapse, whispers for me while she helps Rick up, and I stumble forward and grab under Rick's arm. I blink away the dark in my eyes, and Michonne takes his other arm.

"C-Carl," he rasps, and looks at me like he might cry when he realises I'm not him. "Carl."

"I don't know," Michonne croaks, overwhelmed.

I'm shaking, intrusive images flashing across my vision of Carl splayed across the floor with a bloody bullet hole in his stomach, the electric blue light gone from his eyes, or he's ambling towards me, snapping his teeth, just like Patrick. Rick stumbles and I help him go, one person as our primary objective. I'm not sure where Michonne went, but Rick is struggling too badly for me to leave him.

"Carl!" he screams.

I push against him. He keeps falling. "You're shot," I gasp out, hardly able to, desperately trying to catch my breath. But we both I startle at another explosion from in the Prison. It's the look-out bridge between C and D-Block, and right before us it explodes, sending rubble and parts of the building rocketing off in all directions. Another explosion. Rick falls, but this time I do, too. "Rick," I wheeze. Behind us I hear the walkers coming. "C-come on, please?"

_Fucking, fuck!_

"CARL!" he seems to reply, and it's enough motivation to bring us both back to our feet. "CARL?!" He cries again, and again, and again. I would as well but my wind pipe is swelling. _**Ignore it, Oliver. You can breath. **__No, I can't. I can't!__** You're fine. **__I'm… I'm __dying__.__** You can take your inhaler in a moment. Just find him. Find Carl.**_

We come to the tank. The door and cannon are on fire now. Someone's blown it up. Rick stops to leans on the military vehicle but I know that if I rest now, too, I won't get up again. There is a walker limping after Rick. I trudge forward and slam my machete through its skull, only I can't pull it out. Too weak. So the walker falls, taking me down with it. I drown under it, aware of the air around me but unable to use it. Breathing is like drinking through a straw if someone were to pinch it. I think Rick is pulling it off of me, but even he is too weak.

Two bullets.

I'm so exhausted I don't even flinch at them. I just wait for another walker to sink its teeth into me, or for my brain to shut down. _Three minutes. Three minutes without oxygen until you die, right? _Something yanks. I anticipate teeth. Knees. I think. Yes, knees. I'm pulled onto a pair of them. When I open my eyes I see Carl, and his hand is in my pockets, searching frantically. He's whimpering. I'm gasping, grabbing at his shirt collar, and then something hard and smooth and shaking is pressed between my lips. I recognise it as my inhaler when so much medication is sprayed into my mouth that it stings cold and bitter and familiar.

"OLIVER, BREATHE!"

It hurts, but I do, and it doesn't work right away and so Carl keeps spraying. He does it so much that I have to yank the cartridge away from me, and I double over into the asphalt, choking and wincing and burning and breathing, finally allowing myself the only thing that I am suppose to be guaranteed in this world. Air.

"Th... Thank you," I heave. The relief on Carl's face is priceless. He pants frantically, nodding.

"Judith," Rick rasps to his son. "W-where is she?"

Carl is trembling. "I don't know."

Rick whimpers, pulls us to stand up. Still, being so weak, Carl has to help us both. We don't talk as we search. In fear that if we do what we are all thinking has happened to her will come true. _**She'll be okay. She has to be. We found Carl. We can find Judy, too. We have to. **_But then I spot it. I try to force it away. Lonely baby carriers neglected in the middle of courtyards are never a good thing. _It's not there. I can't see it. _But even as I shake my head, refusing to acknowledge it, the neglected baby carrier sat on the asphalt floor beckons our attention. It's facing away, goading and mocking. Even with Carl's help, Rick only becomes heavier and heavier in our arms the closer we get. I know why. I wish I didn't. I beg anything that could still be watching over us, even after today, that my eyes are lying to me –that everything that has happened over the past few days is all just a bad dream. I'll wake up in my bottom bunk in D-Block and Patrick will be alive and Carl will hit me on the forehead with Butterfly Lion again telling me to wake up for chores.

_Just don't let this be real. Please?_

But it is real. The red. It's too real. It fills the baby carrier, soaking into the seat and making the once pink fabric bright scarlet.

Fresh scarlet.  
Blood.  
Judith's blood.

Rick wails for his daughter and I stumble out of his grip, heaving, my stomach finally deciding to evacuate its contents, gagging and retching until I am so empty it aches, until I startle when I hear shot after shot from Carl's rifle, emptying his ammo into a walker's skull. He doubles over. Rick holds him, crying his name until he stops. The power of loss and anger punches me in the gut so hard that I almost keel over.

"O-Oliver," Rick calls me, pulling me by the back of my shirt into him. Carl screams his cries into both of us. "We gotta go." I'm gripping and grabbing and holding Carl so hard he's wincing, but he's holding me, too. It takes Rick pulling us to either side of him to get us to move again. "It's over."

We all limp across the courtyard. Walkers fill the Prison, but they are all busy eating our family. I see their faces. People from my block. Some guy who always called me Patrick Two-Point-O. A girl who lived next door to me. She gnaws down on another dead man's ankle. He was from B-Block. He collected rocks. I don't want to be here. Not here. We can't leave the way the Governor came through because it's swamped with walkers, so we leave through the other broken fence, from the walkers last night. All it takes is Carl pulling a few crates out of the way, and then we're out. . . and it's over. Our home is gone, burnt to the ground under bullets, walkers, and tank tracks. All gone. All dead. Carl takes a glance back when we all reach the peak of a small hill, but Rick pulls him around.

"Don't look back. Carl. Jus' keep walkin'."

So we don't look back.

We just keep walking.

* * *

**Notes**

Happy reading xx :)


	14. After, Part 1: Angst

Re-edited: 04/05/2015

* * *

**Guest** Thank you xxx

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

We walk for hours. The pain and suffering of the whole day being enough to keep us going on auto-pilot. I stay beside Rick, clutching my inhaler in my right hand and helping him walk with my left arm around his shoulders. He limps along, gripping me to stay stood up, but he sways as he walks, his injuries making him less spacially aware and he almost steps on me a few times.

But after a little while, Carl just lets go of his father.

He walks beside us for a few minutes and Rick and I accept that I will be enough to hold the injured Grimes up for a little while. But as the minutes continue to pass, slowly and painfully, I notice Carl getting further and further away. Not just physically, but mentally. He's doing it again, just like he tried to with me yesterday night. He's blocking us out.

"Carl. Slow down."

Carl doesn't respond to his father. He just keeps walking.

"Stop!"

Even I jump at Rick's bark.

But Carl finally obeys, but he doesn't acknowledge his father, he just stares ahead.

"We needa stick together," Rick continues, limping to his son and I do my best to keep the desperate man on his feet. "We gotta find a place - get food and supplies."

Carl still doesn't respond.

"Hey…"

Rick places his hand on Carl's shoulder.

"We're gonna be-"

But Carl turns his head and glares at his father. Cold and soulless. That's what I fight not to think of as I remember seeing the same glare from The Governor when I woke up in the camper van, pursing my lips and stare at Carl in worry. He's shutting down. I've never seen Carl like this before. I avert my eyes, fearing that if I look at him any longer he will give me that glare too. I don't think I could bear it. But Carl ignores me anyway, turning on his heel and walking, letting Rick's hand fall to the taken aback father's side, and I see the man out of the corner of my eye as he looks at me for some kind of help, or reassurance, expecting me to be able to give him an answer or solution to Carl's coldness.

But I have none. I'm useless.

So we keep walking.

* * *

After a few more silent miles, my mind is elsewhere, subconsciously switching back to auto-pilot again.

_Blank. Blank. Blank. _

But I am brought back to manual by a wheezy noise from Rick, as he motions ahead of us, so I look up from the floor to see, a few hundred yards up the road, what looks like, a restaurant or bed and breakfast motel. Carl sees it too, and veers off the road to make a beeline for it. Rick follows, and I clutch under his arm, feeling his struggle as he does his best to quicken his pace and catch up to Carl before he goes into the building alone. But I don't exactly think that Rick is in much condition to afford being protective over Carl, whom, truthfully, is the only person here that can move without wincing and gasping from the pain.

Walking around the abandoned motor bikes and stepping over littered bottles and old newspapers, we get to the building. I realise that it is a barbecue bar and my stomach growls as it becomes aware of how empty it is, especially after yacking a few hours ago.

Rick tries to pull himself from my grip.

"Y-you sure?" I ask, croaking as this is the first thing I have said in hours, and my sore wind pipe makes me wince.

"Yeah. I got it," he reassures me, wheezing as he weakly stands on his own.

I watch him wearily, readying myself if I have to catch him if he crumples to the floor in exhaustion again. But he steadies himself and the three of us reach the door. I take out my machete, quickly stuffing my inhaler into my pocket as Carl takes out his gun, Rick taking an axe that he found on the side of the building, used for decoration once upon a time I guess.

Rick pulls the –already- broken door open with a creak.

_This place has been looted already. Why are we bothering? __**Because, there may still be something we can take. Anything can help us right now. We're desperate.**_

"Wait outside. Okay?" Rick says. "Keep watch."

Unsurprisingly, Carl narrows his eyes at his father. "You 'keep watch'. You can barely stand. I'm not gonna let you go in there alone."

I am equally as indifferent. I'm just not being so obvious about it. But I too realise that Rick can't go in there alone.

"Excuse me?" Rick hisses, glaring at his son and irritated by Carl's sudden concern for his well being, after just spending the last few hours completely ignoring him.

"We've done this _before,_" Carl says. "I'm gonna help you clear it… you should jus', let me do it myself."

Carl stares at his father and doesn't even regard me. He's angry, and is ignoring me for it. I'm one of the main things that has caused the majority of his confusion and emotional turmoil today. Kissing me, the Prison falling, his sister and everyone else. But since The Prison is gone now, and Judy… she's dead… and we have no idea where anyone else is or if anyone else even got out, I am the only thing left that he can pretend isn't here anymore. So he is doing exactly that.

Deleting me from his acknowledgement.

Rick grits his teeth, and then swallows the blood in his mouth. "Let's go."

We enter the bar, checking in the first few rooms that we see. Carl goes ahead into the main bar area and I follow him with Rick, seeing the irritation on Rick's swollen and badly cut up expression.

The first thing I notice is the large mound of chairs and furniture stacked up across the middle of the room. I frown, feeling the throb and sting from my wounds. But I hear something moving as a walker wanders out of the shadows. I instinctively grip my machete tighter in my hands, ignoring my wince as my palms sting from the cuts on them.

_Jeeze. I'm hurting everywhere. __**It's a miracle that you're still conscious.**_

The walker ambles towards the furniture, shoving itself against the stacked chairs and tables. But the barrier does its job and the walker can't get through to us. With the situation being less serious than I first expected, I let myself examine the walker a little more, tilting my head as I stare at its decaying and grey skin that sags off of its jaw and nose. It snaps its teeth at the three of us, leaning against the furniture. It's slow, so I guess it has been here for a while.

Then I notice the bottles of hot sauce on the back row of the shelf. I motion to it with my machete, wondering if there may be some other food too.

"That might be all that's left," Rick notices them too.

I grimace, remembering Carl telling me that Rick once scolded him for trying to eat dog food. I wonder if we are desperate enough now that Rick would allow us to eat the hot sauce as a meal. Is there a scale in Rick's head that determines what level of desperation and inhumanity that we are at before we just eat whatever we can find? I wonder when the level is low enough to eating tree bark, or insects. _**I don't know. But we're probably desperate enough by now to eat the dog food, so, you should consider the hot sauce a treat.**__ Yeah. But I can't imagine that hot sauce is much better than just eating nothing._

"Hmm," I agree with myself a little too loudly.

But because of my unintentional noise, in the first time since the Prison Carl looks me in the eyes. Only for a moment, but my stomach churns at the sight of how emotionless his expression is. He looks away again and back to the walker almost immediately.

He raises his gun to it. "I can get it from here."

"No," Rick croaks, "no, it's weak. I'll draw it out."

The staggering man looks over where best to pull out some furniture, and Carl obeys, drops his gun to his side. He picks up a piece of paper and I glance at it. But I can't make out the note written on it because Carl is holding it at the wrong angle for me. I am about to look away from it, not wanting to have to look over his shoulder, but Carl tilts it slightly, purposely showing me the message but still refusing to look at me. I purse my lips to silently thank him, and I read:

_'Please do what I couldn't – Joe Jr'_

"Stay back," Rick warns us.

Carl glares at the walker, shaking his head in annoyance as he leaves the paper on the table. He thinks that Joe Jr. was stupid - a coward for not putting his father's walker down. I remember when my dad turned, and my mom. But it was right at the beginning. Patrick and I couldn't bring ourselves to put them down either, so we left them in their bedroom. . . It was awful. . . I know that if I went back to Virginia, home, right now, they would probably still be there.

I've told Carl about that before. But only now do I realise that he must think I am a coward for not putting them down, too. _**Don't think about that, Oliver. **_Taking my own advice, I grit my teeth, stepping back from the stack of furniture as Rick readies himself to pull a chair out. He glances at me and Carl to see if we're ready. Carl doesn't respond, but I nod in confirmation for us… I guess Carl is ready at least, because he isn't really giving me anything to go on.

Rick shoves the chair out, but it brings down a lot more with it than he thought. But he manages to get out the way just in time as the furniture avalanches down to him. Carl and I watch the walker make its way for The Adult Grimes. But then Carl raises his gun, worried for his weak father.

Rick whacks the walker through the forehead with his axe. But for too long, the walker stays upright. It continues to growl and reach for Rick. _**He must've not hit it right. The brain wasn't destroyed properly! **_I see Carl tense up next to me, about to shoot.

"DON'T! I'VE-"

I am about to lunge forward and drive my machete through the walker's head, but I stop short at a gunshot.

Carl.

The walker falls to the ground and I stare at the teenager.

"I said not to!" Rick scolds his son.

"You couldn't do it with the axe!" Carl shouts defensively. He glances at me, I would've thought for back up, or for me to say something to calm him. But he looks away again, reminding himself that he is trying to hate me.

"I had it!" Rick pants. "Every bullet counts… we'da needed that one later."

He's wheezing, motioning to Carl's gun as he sways on his feet. I wince when I see the red ring around Rick's irises. _Jesus christ… he's in really bad shape._

"See what you both can find," Rick instructs, pulling his axe from the walker's skull with a crunch before going into the kitchens alone. "An' let's move on."

Carl grits his teeth and shakes his head, stepping back as I walk past him behind the bar, deciding that I am not going to wait for him to lead the way while he skulks. So I rummage through the various cupboards, looking for anything I can get my bruised and cut hands on. _Let's just see if we can find anything else before we get the hot sauce.__** I agree.**_

Carl finds a cupboard at his eye level and when he opens it he lets out a long sigh of relief. I turn and look at what has caused such an unexpected reaction, and I gasp when I see what it is too. The cupboard is almost full! Potato chips, jarred pickles, tinned plumb tomatoes, about three small jars of pesto, and bags of this foreign cereal stuff.

_We'll eat weird. But we'll eat._

We collect everything except the hot sauce. _**Nah. We're not that desperate yet.**_ I allow myself to feel a little more hopeful as Rick emerges from the kitchen with his own find.

"Kitchen wasn't empty after all…" he says. "My haul."

We watch as he puts bottles of water and Graham crackers into a supply bag he'd found.

"You?" he glances up at me and Carl as we carry an armful each of food over to him.

"I win," Carl says, dropping his armful into the supply bag and staring at his father as he does.

_Oh, thanks, because I was of no help at all.__** Don't be so damn petty, Oliver. Let it go. And, he did kind of win. He found the food. **__Fine, whatever. _I resist the urge to roll my eyes at myself and the teenager, ignoring Carl's insistence on pretending that I am not here as he dismissively steps back to give me room to drop my armful into the supply bag.

"C'mon," Rick says, motioning us to follow him out of the bar.

Carl takes the supply bag and slings it over his shoulder, and then suddenly looks at me. I almost startle, my feet rooted to the floor as his scintillating, electric blue meet my gaze, a sudden intensity bursting out and between us. He looks like he will say something, but his eyes glaze over, the electricity fading as he loses himself in thought, before dropping his gaze to the floor and following after his dad without a word.

Confused and aching everywhere, I just wince and go back to Rick, taking under his arm again to support him. Then, the three of us leave the bar's car park and continue walking.

* * *

**Carl's POV**

"Hey."

Stop.

"Hey."

Stop it.

"Hey."

God damn it.

My father's insistence is infuriating. But I bring my numb legs to stop just outside of a suburb house. I listen as they drag there feet, coming to stand a few meters behind me and I turn to look at them.

"That one's as good as any," Dad motions to the house I had stopped in front of.

I make my way over to the front door, gritting my teeth as I climb the wooden steps. I can almost feel them both staring at me as they struggle to walk onto the porch.

I don't care.

Dad breaks the doors' lock with his axe and shoves it open. We file into the house, weapons drawn and our eyes open for anything moving. I head into the next room along, while they go and check the kitchen and dining area. Then I head down the hallway, aiming to check the back door.

"Carl!"

"I got it," I hiss over my shoulder to my dad, keeping my gun raised as I continue walking down the hallway, "all the doors down here're open."

"Jus' stop!" he hisses.

I drop my arms, feeling my annoyance threaten to spill from my skin. I swing around, letting out a sigh as I glare at him, both of us already knowing that there's nothing down here.

"HEY, ASS HOLE!"

My shout echoes through the dead home, shoving my arm against the wall with a loud bang that seems to rattle the whole house, shaking the air, and my eyes lock onto him, staring at my father and enjoying the shocked and outraged expression on his bruised face.

"HEY, SHIT FACE!"

I do it again, hitting the wall harder, revelling in the pain that explodes up my wrist and forearm.

I hit the wall again, gritting my teeth from the brilliant agony.

"HEY, ASS-"

"WATCH YOUR MOUTH!"

I stare at him, amazed that, even now, he expects me to care about my language.

"Are you kidding me?" I bob my head sarcastically and Dad only glares. "If there was one of 'em down there they would've come out."

Dad stares at me, and I tense my jaw and shift my gaze from him to the floor, unwillingly feeling like an ant under his scrutiny in that unavoidable way, naturally submissive, because after all, I'm only his son. It takes a moment, and I wait for him to growl at me, but he just leaves to go check the kitchen, leaving me in the hallway. I trudge towards the staircase, climbing up, ignoring the concerned look Oliver tries to give me, and scowling at the floor as he eventually follows.

I take the far end of the corridor as he goes to the nearer. All the other rooms are empty, like I said, so I go into the bedroom. It must have been a teenager's room before, with posters and clothes and music.

Getting a better look, alone and allowing my temper to cool, I realise that it's actually pretty cool in here. There's a gaming system, and I recognise it as an xbox 360 with an idiotically large plasma screen to play it on, accompanied by stacks of video games beside it.

Cool.

I find myself smiling in awe, recognising a few xbox games from when I was a kid. I remember getting so addicted to Call of Duty that Mom had to take it away from me. But Dad, addicted to it as much as I was despite how unlike him it sounds, would get it back and secretly played it with me on the few occasions that Mom left us alone in the house together. I hardly spent time with Dad, from how much he worked. So to do this with him sometimes was, in my childhood opinion, something to look forward to.

I don't even remember the last time I truly looked forward to anything.

I suddenly feel almost dizzy with nostalgia and my smile drops as I tense my mouth in annoyance. It's stupid to think about that. I'm never going to feel that again. It's a dead memory in a dead world. So I ignore it.

He walks past the bedroom door, catching my gaze with those stupid eyes, pursing those stupid lips, and I look away and step towards the gaming system, pushing the video games off of the desk and letting them fall to the floor with a loud clatter, before ripping out the cables from the TV, wrapping them around my hand before exiting.

He stares at the floor, stepping aside as I leave.

It's getting dark so I need to make sure the house is secure before we rest. Dad watches me as I go to the front door, and taking my time, I tie the cable around the doorknob and the curtain hook, pulling at it when I am done to make sure it'll hold. But I hear them both shoving against the over turned couch, gritting my teeth as I see them trying to manoeuvre the couch to block the door.

"I tied the door shut."

I don't even try to hide my contempt.

"We don't need to take any chances," Dad says, and they continue moving the couch towards the door, struggling, because they are both still very weak.

"You don't think it'll hold?"

"Carl."

"It's a strong knot!" I argue and they stop to look at me. "Clove hitch… Shane taught me… remember him?"

The verbal whack across my father's bruised face causes him to completely freeze, absolutely outraged at me.

Oliver's confused gaze shifts between us, not realising the such a sensitive subject.

"Yeah, I remember him. I remember him everyday."

Dad's words are venom, a kind of anger and contempt hardening his swollen facial features and almost making me afraid to look at him, regretting what I said, but holding my ground, refusing to show my remorse to either of them.

"There somethin' else you wanna say to me?"

I stare at him for a moment, cursing myself. But I want to scream at him. I want him to know that he has killed everyone, and that all of it is his entire fault. But I hold my tongue, dipping my head and relenting, going over to the other side of the couch to help them move it. I have to do the majority of the shoving, but even so as the couch rolls over against the wall and door, Oliver loses his footing and slams to the floor with it.

"Gah!" he yelps.

My breathing hitches as I see how hurt he is, but I don't do anything.

"You alright?" Dad asks and I feel relieved that he'd asked. But I still don't do anything to help.

"Y-yeah. I got it."

I hold back my wince, seeing the dark, sore bruises over Oliver's neck and face, covering small of his back that his top had shown after it lifted slightly from his fall. I look away, almost hurting from the rock in my throat as he struggles to lug himself to his feet again.

I don't care. I don't care.

"This'll have to do for the night," Dad says, and I ignore the glare he gives me for my hostility.

**Oliver's POV**

Rick takes off his holster and carefully sits on the couch, leaning down to rummage through the supply bag as Carl begins to take a few cushions to sleep on. Rick holds out a bag of the foreign cereal to me. I nod in thanks and take a handful, before sitting on the floor under the window and beginning to eat. Rick offers Carl some cereal, too.

"You gonna have some?" Carl asks him.

"You should eat."

"We should save it," Carl retorts.

He lifts the cushions from the couch and as he turns around he glares at me, and even though I am completely empty after I threw up my appetite disappears completely. We look away from each other at the same time. Carl drops the cushions on the floor and I just stare down at the small amount of cereal cupped him my palm. Rick gets up from the couch, struggling but he manages, stepping to me and gesturing me to keep eating, so I bring myself to keep grazing on the food.

"Hey," he addresses his son, limping over to him and holding out the cereal to him.

"I don't want any."

Rick throws the bag on the floor at Carl's feet, Carl doesn't flinch, but inwardly, he curls his lip into his mouth like a scolded dog.

"Eat it. An' find Oliver something to sleep on," he adds irritably, before limping out of the living room and into the hallway.

Carl stares after his father, before finally grabbing the packet of cereal and shoving his hand into it. He takes a small handful and throws all of it into his mouth, before leaving the packet on the couch.

"C'mon," he mutters reluctantly.

"I-I can just sleep on the floor," I say, avoiding his sudden glare as I finish my food. "We've both done it before."

I was trying to ease the tension, referring to sleeping in the Office Blocks together and hoping it might be a conversation starter. But I suddenly realise that any mention of our destroyed home is probably the worst decision to make right now.

"C'mon," is all he says, his tone emotionless and cold.

I bring myself to me feet, having to clutch the windowsill to help me. Carl just watches, waiting impatiently for me to get myself balanced before I walk towards him. He turns and walks into the hallway, making his way up the stairs as I struggle to follow, my whole body aching and throbbing as I take every step one at a time. Carl doesn't wait when he gets to the top.

When I finally get there too, I notice wheezing coming from the bathroom. So I walk to the bedroom I saw Carl in earlier when he threw the video games on the floor, guessing that this is where Carl went. But just as I am about to turn into the bedroom, I hear the wheezing again and I realise that Rick is in the bathroom tending to his wounds.

_He's hurting worse than I am. _

I walk into the bedroom, wincing as I push on the half closed door as the cold wood stings my cut up palms. I find Carl inside. The video games that he threw on the floor are scattered across the wooden surface and he quickly kicks them out of the way to make a path to get to the bed. The bed is kind of in another room in the bedroom, and Carl leans against the doorway into it, motioning behind him.

"There," he says dismissively. "You can sleep here"

I shake my head and grab an armful of the duvet. "We should all sleep in the same room for tonight. I can just take the blanket downstairs."

"No. Jus' sleep up here," he hisses, removing himself from the wall and beginning to walk to the door. "The house is clear. Jus'... sleep in here."

"Why are you being like this?" I frown at him, quickly dropping the duvet back on the bed and standing in the door way. But the sudden movement makes my head spin so I have to lean on the door frame a little, and Carl glares at me and turns around to face me again.

"What're you talking about?"

I grit my teeth and glare right back.

"You're being a dick, man," I whisper loudly at him, not wanting to draw attention from Rick in the bathroom. "You can't treat me and your dad like this."

Carl only glares, his irritation growing with every second I speak. But I don't stop.

"Making me stay up here isn't gonna solve your problems," I continue angrily, wincing as my injured temple throbs painfully. "What happened, this morning, and with the Prison and everything else. You have to deal with it, Carl. All of it. . . So _quit_ treating us like_ shit _under your _fucking_ boot."

"This isn't about _you,_" Carl tenses his jaw and takes a few steps closer to me, challenging me, "or Dad. I mean... look at you, Oliver… you're a mess. You look like you're about to drop right here. You'll be _better off _in here. There's no other place to sleep down stairs anyway, so you might as well jus' sleep in a bed."

I'm panting, trying to straighten my thoughts and posture, but as I pull myself from the wall, like Carl said, I just drop to the floor, grunting as the fall shakes my whole body, sending rockets of pain up my spine and through my head.

"Oliver!"

I hear, as my vision begins to darken, and a static sound begins ringing in my throbbing ears. I feel Carl grab my shoulders, but the feeling becomes numb. . .

Until I pass out.

* * *

**Notes**

Don't worry, Oliver is fine. I wouldn't do that to you again :) he's just really messed up after what The Governor did to him :)

Don't forget to review, favourite and follow xxxx

Happy reading xx :_)_


	15. After, Part 2: Pudding is Awesome

**Oliver's POV**

_I tap his shoulder to rouse him. But he frowns and covers his face with his hands so that only the end of his freckly nose pokes out between his fingers._

_"Carl? Wake up," I say to the sleepy teenager. "Your dad says we've got a few hours to kill. Might as well do something, rather than just sleep in all day."_

_"No," he mumbles, letting out a grumble as he shoves his face into his feather pillow, shaking his head in his sleepy daze. "I-I don't want string beans. They taste like dirt. I don't like 'em."_

_I laugh._

_"I'm not giving you string beans, idiot," I insist, shaking his shoulders. "We're gonna go do something. Come on, wake up, man."_

_But even half asleep, he is irrevocably stubborn, and just waves me away and rolls back over to hide his face._

_"I don't like string beans," Carl grumbles again. "Piss off."_

_I sigh, and roll my eyes. "Whatever, doofus."_

_I see my beanie hat on the desk, but I decide to leave it there because the weather is pretty warm today. In knowing that I can't wake up Carl yet, I leave the office and head towards the Office Block exit, running into Mika as I go._

_"Hey Mika."_

_"Oliver!" she exclaims, beaming at me. "Guess what, guess what?!"_

_"What's up?" I ask, crouching down to her eye level to talk to the child._

_She bobs on her tip toes, practically shaking with excitement. "Lizzie's better! She's allowed out of A-Block! I'm gonna go find her."_

_I smile. A real smile that feels unfamiliar, but completely welcomed at the same time and also somehow missed in a way that I can't figure out._

_"Awesome! That's great Mika."_

_"D'you wanna come with me to go get 'er?" Mika asks excitedly._

_"Sorry, I can't. I've gotta go to the courtyard and kiss Carl."_

_I sling my arm over her shoulder, walking with her out of the Office Block. But I furrow my brow for a moment, remembering when this happened just yesterday, but… I don't remember saying that part. I do remember going to A-Block with Mika to find Lizzie, and then going to the courtyard alone afterwards.__** I wonder how I know that I am going to kiss Carl today? **__Though, after a moment, I just dismiss my confusion and keep walking with Mika anyway._

_"Oh. I didn't know Carl was your boyfriend," she says sweetly._

_"H-he's not," I say with a frown tugging at my eyebrows as we walk out of the door and into the sunlight._

_"Oh. Well, d'you want him to be?" she asks._

_I stop at the bottom of the steps and reluctantly shrug. "He hates me."_

"_Why?" Mika turns to me, furrowing her brow innocently._

_I pause, trying to form my words, but the truth is, I don't know, so I tell her what is _really_ bothering Carl. "Well… The Prison was destroyed. And, now that Judith and everyone else is dead… he hates everything."_

_"No we're not," Mika frowns, but then starts to giggle at me. "An' Judy's with us… an'… look, the Prison's fine." She motions around us to the very much alive and in-one-piece Prison, and then pulls me by my hand to crouch to her eye level again. "You're so strange, Oliver."_

_I chuckle too. Then, for some reason, she raises her hand and flicks me on my temple, but it hurts more than I was expecting and I flinch._

_"Ouch," I gasp, wincing but still half heartedly chuckling at the girl._

_"Sorry," she apologises._

_But she flicks me again, sending a shooting pain through my head._

_"Ow. M-Mika, why are you doing that?" I flinch, blocking her hand to get her to stop._

_"I'm trying to fix you," she says, before quickly and painfully flicking me again._

_"Mika. S-stop." I frown at her, becoming irritated by her now._

_"I have to," she insists, managing to break out of my grasp and flicking my temple again. "Oliver... you need to wake up."_

_"Ack! Ow! W-what're yo-? Wait. W-what?!"_

_I stammer, completely confused as I try to stop her from flicking me without hurting the child. But suddenly, right before my eyes, Mika turns into my mother. I watch in complete confusion and shock as she grows and matures, and her hair turns long and black and smooth, and her eyes turn brown and familiar._

_I gasp in awe._

_"M-Mom?" I mew, letting a smile spread over my mouth despite my pain._

_Mom smiles at me, and gently strokes my cheek. But then, her expression hardens and she flicks my temple, just like Mika did, only harder, making me yelp._

_"Oliver. I don't want you forgetting about your ancestors! You already left me and your papà! Don't forget it all. My own son…Un vigliacco maledetto!" she yells furiously, and tears well in my eyes at her hurtful words._

_"No. M-Mom. I'm sorry! There was nothing we could do! Y-you'd turned - both of you!"_

_"Oliver. Wake up it's me. You need to eat," she says, flicking me again. "C'mon, get up. Snap out of it!"_

_Only my mother's voice isn't hers anymore, she sounds like Carl. Suddenly my head reels and I double over in pain, as what _was_Mika, but now _looks_ like my mom and even more disturbingly _sounds_ like Carl, continually flicks me in the temple over and over again._

_Stop! STOP!_

* * *

"Oliver. Wake up. You gotta eat."

My eyes snap open and I sit bolt upright.

"Agh!"

I wince terribly as my head pulsates from the movement and blinding light, making me feel like my brain is exploding in my skull. Someone grabs my shoulders and pushes me to lie down again.

"Jeeze, Oliver. It's me, it's jus' me."

I recognise Carl's voice, and it rings in my ears.

"Don't sit up so fast, you'll pass out again."

I wince, grunting as my eardrums scream for him to stop talking. But I do as he says and lie down again, keeping my eyes closed for a few minutes until the pain in my head is bearable. When it finally is, I slowly coax my eyes to open again, squinting from the morning light pouring into the bedroom. I see Carl, staring at me blankly and tiredly.

"What happened?" I ask him, beginning to get used to his permanently emotionless expression. He tenses his jaw for a moment before answering.

"You knocked yourself out last night," he says, "we think you've got a concussion. Dad helped me with your wounds… until… until he almost passed out too, so he had to go lie down," he says, stubbornly refusing to show the worry that I know he feels for his father, "but, your wounds, they didn't look nice. Your head's pretty badly sliced, an' there was a lot of dirt in your other cuts. I'll try to find antibiotics today."

"Is it infected?" I ask worriedly.

Infection was easy to cure before, but now it can kill a person.

"I don't know," Carl shrugs, staring down at the bowl in his hands, "but I'll find antibiotics anyway," he says, handing me the bowl of cereal. "Breakfast."

I nod in thanks and take the bowl, feeling a little relieved that Carl is talking to me again, even if he isn't really looking at me. He must have had a little time to calm down while I was out.

"Have you eaten?" I ask him, and Carl nods yes. "Good. Where's your dad?"

Carl rubs his eyes restlessly. "Still asleep. I'll go wake him later - get some food in him as well."

I chew my lip. "Well, what're you gonna do until then?"

I know that he is still mourning after everything we saw and went through yesterday, and I know that he has been ignoring me ever since, but I still don't want him to leave.

He watches me for a moment, before glancing at something in his hands. I didn't even notice he was holding anything else, but I realise that it is a book.

"Read," he answers simply.

He props himself against the wall, with his legs stretched along the short side of the bed, and I move my feet out of the way so that he can get comfortable.

Then, just like he said, he begins to read.

In silence, we stay in the bedroom. I eat my breakfast, while Carl reads his book, shaking his leg after a few minutes as he lets himself get into the story, and when I finish eating, I just let myself enjoy the quiet. I don't even notice as I begin to drift off into unconsciousness again.

* * *

"Dad. Wake up!"

I startle awake at Carl's voice, wincing. _God, this concussion must be a doozie._

"Wake up!"

I hear him again from downstairs.

"WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP!"

I pull myself out of bed, noticing that my bowl is gone. Carl must have taken it when I passed out again. I don't hear him say anything else from downstairs, so I quicken my pace as best I can, stumbling out into the hallway and to the top of the stairs.

"Carl?"

"O-Oliver… don't come down here," his voice breaks and I can hear the startle in it, making my heart pound in my chest. "G-go back to sleep."

"W-what's wrong?" I say worriedly, wincing slightly, but the pain is bearable. "Is Rick okay?"

"He's fine. He's jus' passed out," he whispers, with a kind of urgency behind his tone.

_Why is he whispering?_ I am about to ask, but I become aware of a kind of rattling noise, but with my pounding head, I just dismiss it as my imagination or the blood pulsating through my ears.

"Oliver, go back to bed, before you fall down the stairs."

My head begins to fog a little, so I do as he says and head back to the bedroom, clutching my temples and willing the painful rattling sound to stop. I carefully climb back into bed, resting my head on the pillow, and shortly after, the rattling stops.

* * *

**BANG!**

Sense of time eludes me, and as soon as I think I am falling into unconsciousness, I startle awake at a gunshot. My head throbs and I wonder if it was just in my head, like the rattling. But I startle again when another shot rings out from somewhere in the neighbourhood.

"Carl?"

I pull myself out of bed and quickly make my way downstairs, ignoring the flicking sting in my injured temple - now realising why Mika kept flicking my head in my dream. Along with the painful flicking sensation in my temple though, is the throbbing in my shoulder and… well, my entire body really._ Jeeze, yesterday has really beaten me up._

"Rick?" I call out as I get to the bottom of the steps and go into the living room. I find the man only. He is still asleep on the couch, and I crouch down to try to wake him as another three gunshots ring out across the neighbourhood, one after the other.

I freeze, realising what must be happening. Carl. _Oh, shit!_ I feel myself panicking, knowing that it's him. He's gone out like he said he would. _Dammit!_

**Carl's POV**

Maggots.

It's got maggots in its fucking brain!

My stomach convulses in my gut and I shove myself out of the dog-pile of dead walkers that I have been buried under. I bring myself to my feet, panting and holding back my gagging as my stomach lurches and flips inside of me.

Don't puke. Don't pu-

But my stomach disobeys, making me retch and double over, and I spew the cereal and canned tomatoes onto the leafy floor at my feet. When I am empty, I pick up my gun and hat, staring down at the walkers.

"I win."

My voice cracks as I hold back my wince from my sore stomach.

"What the fuck happened?"

I startle at Oliver's voice, spinning on my heel to see him watching me. Who knows how long he's been there!

"What're you doing here?" I hiss, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. Oliver doesn't answer, only narrows his eyes at me. "Well,_thanks _for the help."

"_Idiota,_" he mutters in annoyance to himself, looking away. I think for a moment that he just said it wrong, but I realise he was talking in Italian for some reason.

I grit my teeth, about to yell at him - I don't know what for - but I just want to yell at him for something. But I stop short when Oliver begins to cough. I roll my eyes, waiting for him to pull out his inhaler and use it, then I can get back to yelling at him again. But when he rifles through his pockets, he doesn't find anything. He doesn't have his inhaler on him.

"Where is it?" I spit, holstering my gun.

"I don't know," Oliver confesses, wheezing a little as he talks. He must have run to get here and over exerted himself too quickly.

I sigh in annoyance, but I can feel my worry begin to bleed through my mind as I remember his asthma attack yesterday at the Prison. I rush forward and grab his arm, roughly pulling him to follow me back to the house.

"C'mon," I grumble, letting go of him when he begins to follow me. I catch him wince slightly out of the corner of my eye, and I almost apologise, but I stop myself before the words leave me.

We get back to the suburb house, entering through the back door. I sprint upstairs to the bedroom, finding Oliver's inhaler on the bed side table. I knew it was there, because I put it there yesterday after he passed out. My anger grows as I scold myself for not telling him that I removed it from his pocket, but I don't linger in the bedroom, I crash back downstairs. But I find Oliver sat on the steps half way up, wheezing and coughing, with his shoulders leant forwards to ease his breathing. I tense my mouth, almost yelling at the idiot for trying to follow me up anyway, but I know that it's my fault he needs his inhaler in the first place.

"It's not that bad."

But this sends a stabbing guilt through my gut and I grimace as I walk over to him.

"You're supposed to keep this on you all the time?!" I shout, resisting the temptation to fling the inhaler at him.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out, and then takes a puff.

I tense my jaw, forcing my guilt not to surface. I know that I am only mad at myself, but I can't help myself from taking it out on him, and I hate myself for it.

I sigh and sit next to him, waiting for him to catch his breath again. But when he does, neither of us say anything for a long time, we just sit with our forearms leant on our knees, staring at the bottom of the stairs.

"What were you doing out there anyway?" Oliver asks finally. I want to glare at him for accusing me of being reckless, but there is no patronising tone in his voice, only curiosity.

"When I was yelling at Dad, some walkers heard me. I was jus', leadin' 'em away from you both," I tell him, sighing through my nose. But I don't need to say anymore. I can tell that he's guessed that I was caught off guard, and I don't want to bruise my pride any more than being found by him already has.

"Okay," Oliver furrows his brow. "Were they banging on the door, before?"

"Uh huh. Why?"

Oliver raises his brow and shakes his head. "I… I kind of thought it was in my head. Other wise I would've helped you."

"I had it," I say without thinking about the state Oliver found me in. Oliver does well to hold back his scoff, and I make an effort not to get defensive again. There is a short pause, while we both exchange a few glances of subtly gratitude with each other.

"Why hasn't he woken up yet?" Oliver asks, finally breaking the silence, and along with it, changing the subject too, gesturing with his bruised and cut up knuckles to the living room, where my father still lays comatose on the couch.

"Dunno," I shrug, "think he jus' needs to heal a little more… He'll be fine."

I hope. . .

I wish. . .

I doubt.

Oliver offers the best reassuring smile he can muster, but I don't return it. I just glance at him and then look away again.

"You should go back to bed," I suggest quietly, ignoring the lump in my throat and resisting the almost unbearable urge to envelope my arms around him and cry until I am empty.

Oliver purses his lips, but instead of pressing, he kindly nods. "Okay."

I have to close my eyes, the softness and sympathy in his voice almost breaking me right open, and he sighs, before getting up and walking up the rest of the flight of stairs and heading into the bedroom. I listen as he goes, feeling my tears fight against my eye lids. I hear him slump into bed, and then all I can hear is my dad's wheezy breathing.

They're both hurt so bad. Oliver hasn't seen how bad he is yet, but I saw his bruises last night while me and Dad did our best to patch him up. The contusions cover his neck, his shoulders, his back and… well, almost everywhere in all honesty. His hands and knees are cut up pretty bad too, and he has a cut on the left side of his abdomen. Unless I find antibiotics, I am almost certain that he will get an infection from the gash on his temple. Then there's Dad. He is nothing but bruises, cuts, and gashes… and, he's shot.

But, we are the ones who survived the attack. I can't even begin to think how the others could possibly have survived. I don't even think I believe that they have. Judith didn't. I saw her blood. She's dead.

They all are.

I don't know how long I sit on the stairs for. Long enough that I am almost shaking from my anger, long enough to know that Oliver has fallen asleep again, by his mumbling. He's been having bad dreams since we got here. When I woke him up earlier he called me Mom, and then he said _"No. Sorry! Nothing we could do! You turned, both of you,"_ or something like that, but I couldn't make it out properly because he was thrashing around too much.

I sit up straighter when I suddenly think I hear him say my name. He's dreaming about me? I wait a moment, silently deciding whether it is considered eves-dropping when the person is asleep. But my eyes widen and I can feel my cheeks heat up as I hear him moan my name again, so I awkwardly stand up and quickly go back downstairs.

I need to have some water to get the taste of vomit out of my mouth, and I should be getting ready to head out again anyway. I still need to find antibiotics and whatever else that I can find. Anything will help us right now.

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"He knew where we were and you DIDN'T CARE!" I jolt in my sleep at Carl's voice shouting. It seems like this is happening a lot lately. "You jus' hid behind those fences an' WAITED fo-"

I sit up, quickly making my way out of the bedroom, staying quiet because I don't know how welcome I will be if Carl knew I was awake right now.

"They're all gone now! BECAUSE OF YOU!" he roars, and I stop mid-step half way down the staircase, scared that he is talking to me. Does he know I'm here? But I realise who he is screaming at with his next words. "THEY COUNTED ON YOU! YOU WERE THEIR LEADER!"

I swallow my dry throat; relieved that Rick has awoken, but worried about his and Carl's argument against each other. I silently skip the last two steps to get to the bottom of the stairs. I dip my head, leaning against the wall by the doorway into the living room, hearing Carl slump to the floor and he sniffs a little as he fights his tears.

"But now… you're nothing."

I chew my lip. Carl has relied on his father ever since I met him. He devoted his loyalty to appease him, and I can't begin to understand his disappointment after the attack. I don't agree with him though. But I don't think Carl agrees with himself either. He's hurting, and he just needs to get this out of his system.

I expect Rick to yell back at his son for his words, but the only sound I hear is cans and plastic packets clatter to the floor, and Carl begins to leave through the dining room, but my whole body erupts in goose bumps at his next words.

"I'd be fine if you _died._"

I freeze. Completely shocked by what Carl has just said as I realise that Rick must still be unconscious. _But, Carl doesn't mean it. I know he doesn't… I just know._

I listen, paralysed to the spot as Carl walks out into the hallway. I don't even try to hide or quickly dart into the living room out of his sight. I just stare at him as he walks out. He sees me out of his peripheral vision, and his head darts to look at me, startling and staring at me, as I see his pupils fully dilated and wild form his anger.

"I'm sorry," I apologise automatically.

I watch as his brow knits into a fierce frown, and I ready myself for him to unleash his own bottled up Hell on me. But instead, to my complete confusion, he just averts his eyes to the floor, sighing quickly, and then, without a word from either of us, he leaves through the back door.

I stare after him, my breathing hitching from my shock of what I have just heard and the relief that he didn't seem angry at me. Then, my legs move on impulse and I grab my machete and holster from beside the couch which Rick still resides on. I slip on my sneakers, ignoring my now crimson red, right sneaker, before I leave through the back door.

Carl isn't the hardest person to follow. He is walking slowly, almost like he is waiting for me to come after him. But even when I do catch up, ignoring the jabbing pain pretty much everywhere, he doesn't acknowledge me anyway.

* * *

We keep walking for a while, slowly, as Carl is being subtly considerate of my condition, until finally, after walking a few silent, dead blocks, Carl stops outside of a house.

I don't know why, but as he squares up to the house and takes a few steps towards a small solar power light that is stuck in the ground, I think of an old western movie that I watched with Patrick when I was ten, _'The Good The Bad and The Ugly'_. Maybe it's the way he dubiously bends down and pulls the light from the soil, and then twists it in his hand before strolling up to the door.

He glances behind him towards me, and I take that as my invitation to follow him to the house. So I do, fiddling with the strap of my holster, trying not to think of the man I murdered it for as Carl surveys the porch and front door for a way in.

"Do you want me to use my machete?" I offer, raising my hand over my shoulder to grab it.

But Carl shakes his head. "I got it."

I stand back, as he readies himself for a run up, and then sprints for the door, hurtling himself into it and pretty much bouncing straight off with a bang and a grunt. He lands on the floor, rolling onto his back and staring up at the porch ceiling and I can almost feel his body shake from the hard blow. He lies there, embarrassment turning his cheeks red. But I'm not about to say I told you so so I purse my lips and frown at him instead.

"Dammit," he mutters, closing his eyes.

My gaze catches the skin between his hip and his abdomen where his top has risen, revealing the corner of that strange 'V' shape part, and I am unable to stop the subtle smile that creeps across my lips. I tare my eyes away just as he opens his, and I lean down to help him stand again.

But I am unintentionally still smiling a little and Carl rolls his eyes, under the impression that I am gloating at him.

"N-no, I wasn't-"

I stutter, but stop, realising that I can't exactly tell him why I was really smiling, not right now at least. So I drop my gaze, picking up his hat that had fallen off. I hand it to him, still averting my eyes as he takes it and puts it on.

I step aside, as he goes to try the door another way, but he keeps staring at me as he walks past, rolling the solar light in his hands as he strolls to the door, finally averting his eyes when he gets to it.

He makes surprisingly short work of the latch, cracking it open with hard jabs to the lock and quick shoves to the wooden surface, until it snaps open.

We head inside, searching the ground floor first, the same way we did in the other house yesterday. It seems clear, so we head into the kitchen.

"Look in the cupboards for antibiotics," Carl instructs.

"And food," I add.

"Let's jus' find your antibiotics first."

He glances at me, pursing his lips into what I almost want to call a smile, and I can't help but smile at the much missed tentativeness of his tone. But I look back to the cupboard before he sees my smile become too wide, because I don't want him to remember he is still trying to hate me.

A moment later, continuing to root through drawers and cabinets, I hear him sigh through his nose.

"I found some," he says, showing me the small box of antibiotics. The relief in his expression is kind of refreshing, if it weren't for the continual flicking sensation in my temple.

I look at him, doing well to suppress my wincing. "Good. I'll take them at the house. Come on, let's keep looking."

Carl nods, and continues our search. To our relief, we find a few cupboards next to the sink that are almost full of canned goods. I grin at the stash.

"Awesome," Carl whispers, grabbing as many as his hands can hold and stuffing them into the supply bag.

"I win," I say, subtly teasing him for when I caught him just after he yacked.

Carl smirks at me for a moment, before straightening his face and continuing to empty the cupboard with me. When we finish, and are sure that the kitchen is as empty as we can make it, we are about to leave and head upstairs. But Carl suddenly stops and stares at something above the window on top of the high counter. I furrow my brow in confusion, and carefully follow his gaze.

_Oh my god!_

I gasp as my eyes happen upon a large tin of pudding.

I stare at it in utter awe, before automatically rushing forward, and at the same time Carl grabs a shoe rack and sets it by the counter for me, both of us working in unison without having to communicate with more than body gestures as he helps me climb up, taking my hand and then steadying my legs.

My eyes meet the pudding can again, and it's like coming across your best friend at the mall by a complete, happy coincidence.

_Hello old friend._

I grab it, and crouch down to climb off of the counter, but in my excitement, I had forgotten about my injuries and I wince, grunting as a shooting pain radiates through my temple.

"H-hold on. I got you," Carl says, taking my hand as I crouch down on the counter. He carefully takes my shoulders, and helps me to the ground. All the while, I keep the pudding tin clutched securely under my arm.

_I don't care if I am about to pass out again. The pudding has to be safe!__** Jeeze, even after over a year in the apocalypse, you're still a sucker for chocolate… **__Yes. Yes I am._

Carl slowly leads me into the hallway, setting me down on the floor for me to rest my head on my knees until the pain subsides.

"You gonna be okay?" he asks, crouching down in front of me and pushing his hat down over his head a little more.

"Yeah. I'm fine," I nod, but doing that hurts, so I wince again as Carl places his hand on my shoulder to steady me.

_Why is he suddenly so comfortable with me again?__** Maybe after his blow out with his comatose dad, he really has gotten a lot off of his chest. And you did pass out in front of him yesterday night too. He is still Carl. He is still capable of empathy you know?**__Yeah, of course. I was just wondering. I'm not complaining.__** No, me neither.**_

"Jus' stay down here. I'll check up stairs," he says, pursing his lips worriedly as I nod, and then, to my surprise, a smile spreads across his mouth as he says his next sentence. "You can keep the pudding company."

I laugh, pained but meaning it.

With that, Carl makes one last check around the bottom floor, and then heads upstairs, warning me not to eat it without him.

A moment passes, and I am confident that I can stand without hurting, too much, so I bring myself to my feet. But I know that if I go upstairs, my head will start spinning again, so instead, I head towards the back door, drawing my machete, with the pudding tin still wedged under my machete-less arm. I find the back door keys still left inside the door, so I twist it and slowly push it open. I poke my head out, to see a small back porch, and a -once- cosy looking garden just beyond it. I step out, noticing a swinging love seat hanging from the porch ceiling.

I remember the one that I had in my home before all of this, but it broke when me and Patrick were playing 'Soldiers'. I was twelve and he was fourteen - so what? Like Patrick said, we're immature. But anyway, we leapt on the swinging couch, and the whole thing fell down on top of us, and then the ceiling almost caved in. We were lucky we weren't crushed, but Mom and Dad were livid. We were grounded for, I don't even know how long, and my parents were never the strict kind. I used to think of it as a bad memory, but now, I'd do anything to go back to it.

I go over to the sofa swing and sit on it. I push it back and forth with my toe, my other food tucked underneath me, hearing the squeak of the rusty metal joints as I am guessing this swing hasn't been used for a long time. I let my head roll back, and I close my eyes for a minute, enjoying the sounds of living birds as they chirp in the trees over head.

But I decide that I can't enjoy this for too long though, so I open my eyes and look ahead of me. But my heart stops as I see, on the other side of the porch, a dog bed, and then just next to it. . .

A dead puppy.

Maybe I could have called it a puppy before, but all that is left of it now is it's head. I stare at the white mould growing out of its eye sockets, and the remains of it's decomposed body that has now degraded so much that it is more just a dark shade that has rotted into the wooden porch.

I clasp my hands to my mouth. I have seen so much worse than this before, but everything feels cold, suddenly reminding me that this world destroys the innocent just as brutally as everything else… just like Judith. I grimace, as cold shivers of hatred and anger shoot down my spine and make me feel like I am about to explode.

**BANG!**

**BANG!**

I startle and look up to where the fire power, coming from inside the house.

"Carl!"

I am answered with another gunshot.

I rush back into the house, and my heart pounds adrenaline through my body as I hear violent struggling from upstairs.

"Oh, shit!" I hiss, sprinting up to the struggle. The rush of adrenalin proving to be enough to elude the pain I know would sear through my head right now in a calmer circumstance.

I crash to the second floor, searching for him. But my stomach drops as I find him knelt on the floor, kicking at a walkers face.

"Carl!" I scream.

The thing snaps its jaw at his leg, gripping hold of him in its rotten hands and pulling him to its mouth. Carl makes high grunting noises as he fights against it, and I hurtle forward with my machete drawn. But I know that if I chop at the walker, I might get Carl, so I kick the thing in the face instead.

It falls back, releasing Carl and allowing the teenager to scurry away, but not before ripping off Carl's shoe in the process. But Carl doesn't seem to care.

"Oliver! C'mon!"

He grabs my arm and pulls me as he runs out of the bedroom. I try to pull the door closed behind us, but it's blocked by a clutter of books.

_Fuck!_

The walker manages to get to its feet and comes after us, as we furiously kick and shove the books out of the way. Until just in time, Carl kicks the last few books into the bedroom and slams the door closed. We flatten our backs to the door, as if it will help if the walker decides to learn how to work a door knob. But it doesn't, because it can't, so we shakily remove ourselves from the wooden surface.

I lean forward onto my knees, breathless, but not from my asthma for a change, just from the rush of adrenaline and shock. Carl doubles over panting in his exhaustion and relief.

"You could've been killed!" I yell at him. "_Si cazzo!_"

After my dream, using Italian swear words and insults out loud seems a lot more appealing. _**I don't think that that's what Mom meant by not forgetting your ancestors… **__So? It won't make any difference either way. And besides, I can call Carl a dick now without him knowing.__** I don't think so… **_It's only then that I notice his facial expression, and I'm fairly sure that he's guessed what I meant by that. _**You're in deep shit.**_

Unfortunately, I'm right.

Carl looks furious. I stand up straight, and he glares at me for a long moment and I stare right back, suddenly feeling the hairs stand on end on the back of my neck, and I watch his pupils blow, his cheeks darken, his chest heave his breath.

But then. . .

Carl grabs me.

I think I knew he would. I knew he'd kiss me, and he does, and I kiss him back. Only, it's not a gentle or tentative kiss. It's not a kiss of excitement or affection like our first kiss was. His kiss is filled with anger and frustration and relief. Mine is, too. It's mutual, like electric rippling through the both of us.

His fists tighten in my hair, almost hurting me, and I frown, kissing him harder, pressing my lips to his chapped and dry, holding him around his waist, wanting nothing more than to get as close to him as possible, to heal him, to make him stop hurting, and when his lips are soft again, and when we have relieved ourselves of as much of our frustration and anger and confusion as we can, we pull apart from one another, both of us shaking violently.

I swallow, staring at him and panting more than before as I see his pupils, fully blown and wild with anger and curiosity and relief and appreciation. Carl's expression is suddenly full of emotion, as if everything he wanted to do or say since the Prison is silently spilling from him in one single moment.

But the walker inside of the room finally brings us both back to reality as it shoves itself against the door, scratching and growling for the living flesh he knows is just a few inches away, evident from the sound of our hurried breathing and panting.

We startle from it, and Carl looks away, before crouching down to pick up a piece of white chalk. He stands up again and turns to the door, and I watch him, my whole anatomy buzzing as he writes, in the worst hand writing I have ever seen from the young Grimes;

WALKER INSIDE - GOT MY SHOE - DIDN'T GET ME

I stare at it and Carl turns to me, dropping the chalk on the floor at our feet. But then, a smile creeps across his flushed face and he raises his brow.

"Y-you up for some pudding now?" he asks nervously, still a little breathless.

"Uh huh," I smile at him and nod, "always."

Carl does a sweet breathy chuckle, before turning to the staircase and ascending down it. I follow, pursing my lips and fighting my beaming smile as we both head downstairs. I find the pudding tin where I left it on the swinging couch, ignoring the dead puppy as Carl grabs a can opener from the kitchen and we make our way out of the house, heading back to our original.

But I hear the walker from upstairs and I turn around to look at it. I watch it for a moment, tilting my head as I examine the rotting, grey arm that reaches out for something it'll never get.

I suddenly feel very determined, like I want to take something back from everything that has happened over the past year. I have lost my brother, my home, my parents, the Prison… It's just Carl and Rick and I now. And I want to do something to let that fact be recognised. We've made it this far. A stupid walker isn't going to stop us now.

I go back to the porch.

"Oliver?" Carl says, confused by my departure.

"Come on, help me up," I grunt, as I climb onto the banister and reach up to the gutter.

Carl furrows his brow, but comes back to the house. He hands me the pudding tin and I place it on the edge of the roof.

"Here, gimme your shoulder."

"W-what? Are you sure?" Carl asks worriedly. "What about your head?"

I grin at him, enjoying the potentially dangerous, unstoppable-ness I feel right now. "I'm fine, you big worry wart. Now come on. Give me your shoulder."

He does. He crouches and grabs my ankles as I stand on his right shoulder. "You ready, Oliver."

"Yep, go."

I look up at the roof edge and ready my hands to grab it, and at my command, he pulls himself to stand, raising me high enough to kind of jump/hoist myself onto the roof. I struggle, but I manage to roll myself up and onto it securely.

"Grab it," Carl says as he throws up the supply bag, and thankfully, I catch it without spilling anything.

"Okay, now you," I say, leaning over the edge and holding my hand out as he climbs the banister. He takes my extremity and I pull him up, doing my best to ignore the returning throb to my head.

He climbs up, and I give myself a minute to stop hurting, as Carl rummages around in the supply bag, pulling out the antibiotics and some pain killers he must have found somewhere in the kitchen too. I look at him, and he shuffles over to me, bobbing the small boxes of pills in his hand, and holding his empty gun in the other. He reads the label of the antibiotics for a moment.

"Okay… so, you gotta take six a day. An', you're supposed to take 'em for a week, but there's only…" He carefully pours them out into his palm and counts the orange and grey pills. "Enough for almost four days. Twenty two of 'em."

"Uh. Two days," I correct him, "your Dad'll need them, too."

Carl looks at his lap, shaking his head, so slightly that I think that it's just my head throbbing and I am seeing things, but his expression is all I need to know that he is loosing hope for his father's awakening.

"Carl, he'll be okay."

Carl suddenly looks up at me, "How do you know that?"

"I just do," I say, "look… he was in a coma for an entire month before he found you and your Mom… the way I see it, Rick is as close to invincible as this world is gonna get."

Carl considers this for a moment, until finally he nods. But instead of talking more about his father, he leans over and grabs the pudding tin. I hand him the can opener and watch him open it, swallowing hard as my mouth begins to salivate in anticipation.

"Spoons."

I swivel around, rushing to grab the spoons from the supply bag at Carl mutter, and he's twisting away at the can opener, as though there will be gold inside, which in all honesty, the pudding is as good as that to us right now.

"Got 'em," I say, completely loosing my articulate accent as my excitement begins to get the better of me, and Carl snorts a chuckle at me, before prying the lid open and staring at the beautiful, chocolaty goodness inside. I stare at it, overwhelmed by awe and the unbearable yearning from my sweet tooth.

I hand Carl his spoon and stick mine in, scooping up a greedy amount of the pudding as Carl does the same shortly after. Even I am surprised by the moan I let out when I taste the sweet brilliance in my mouth, making my taste buds feel like they are exploding. Carl laughs at me, but has almost the same reaction when he eats some too.

But I don't laugh, I just eat more.

We eat continually, and somewhere in my sudden pleasure overpowered brain I remind myself to slow down. We haven't eaten much of anything over the past day and a half, especially junk food, so eating too fast could make us yack. Well, it'd definitely make me throw up, as I have a pitifully weak stomach.

In spite of myself, I scoop another mouthful.

"We should slow down a little," I say, adding to the spite.

Carl takes another spoonful too.

"I don't think I can," he admits through his mouthful.

"I have missed pudding so much," I say, trying to talk as a tool to pace us, talking through my mouthful. "I hardly even ate any before this though, it was usually just big cat candy bars or chips."

Carl nods, forcing himself to stop eating for a moment as he fishes out two antibiotics and two pain killers from their boxes. He hands them to me and motions me to take them with the pudding. I do as he says, throwing the 4 pills into my mouth and swallowing them happily with another mouthful of chocolate.

"I miss…"

He thinks, letting his head roll back as he returns to our previous conversation.

"Comics," he says slowly, looking at me again.

I smile into my lap. "Video games," I say, "and Cable TV."

"Mom's Sunday pancakes," he says, raising his brow. I glance up at him, remembering when he told me about Lori's Famous Sunday Pancakes. Apparently they were terrible, but Lori wanted her family to be the kind of family who eat pancakes on Sunday. Even though Carl didn't particularly enjoy them, he still misses them, because they are home to him.

"And Michonne's stale M&amp;M's," I say, thinking of what reminds me of home.

But then everything comes back to me.

All of it.

Everyone who has died and everything that has happened to us suddenly hits me like a tone of bricks.

That stopps us eating.

We both lose our smiles and just stare glumly down at the front yard, listening to the walker growl and hiss at us through the stupid window. _**Really, Oliver? Fucking really? **_In the midst of all of the exploding taste buds and sudden happy feelings, I had forgotten about everything that had happened. I'd forgotten that our home was destroyed and our friends and family are dead.

A long moment passes, and I prod aggressively at the pudding in the half empty tin.

"Sorry. I just… forgot, for a minute," I apologise, wearily glancing at Carl again.

He meets my gaze and nods a little. "It's okay."

I avert my eyes, staring down at my blood stained sneaker, as the flash backs of the man I murdered rush through my head, throttling my memories, making my whole body ache with guilt in a worse way than any of my injuries. My despair and remorse washes over me, and I can feel my face contort as I try to hold back my sudden tears.

Carl stares at me in confusion, opening and closing his mouth as he tries to think of words to console me. But he doesn't know what is wrong, he just thinks that I'm upset from the fall of the Prison, but it was his home too, so he has no words to console me for something that he is equally as distraught about.

But my emotions take over me. I begin to shake and sob, doubling over on the roof top, wailing as I clutch my aching middle. Carl puts his hand on my back.

"Oliver? W-what happened when you were with Michonne?"

His voice cracks, realising that I haven't told him something yet. I lean away from him onto my hands, tears dripping from my eyes onto the mossy roof surface.

"I… I-"

I try, but my lungs rack with my cries and I can't say it. Carl pulls me to him, and I envelope my arms around his middle, clutching his shoulders for dear life as I wail into the crook of his neck.

"Carl. Carl, I killed him. I-I killed him!"

I hear Carl's breathing hitch, and he holds me tighter.

"Who?" he asks.

I pull away from him, wiping my face. "Th-the man who got me out of the truck… he was gonna shoot Michonne… I…"

But I can't say what I did to him, so I glance at my shoe, sobbing as the man's crushed head flashes in front of my blurry vision. Carl glances at my shoe, blinking as he puts two and two together, and then his expression softens.

"Oh."

That's all he says, realising what I have done, what I will always have done, and what I have to live with for the rest of my life.

"Yeah…" I sigh, hiccuping into my hands.

A long moment passes, and I finally stop crying. I hold the pudding tin in my left hand, and let my right hand fall to my side to lean on a little. Carl glances at it, and then, without looking directly at me, he moves his hand and slowly places it on mine.

Something calm. Like an internal dial, slowly getting twisted around, softening the force behind a shower or something, and in response, I swivel my hand around so that my palm faces his, tangling my fingers into his. Carl squeezes my hand, gently running his thumb over mine, and I glance at him, and Carl offers a small comforting smile, before leaning forward a little. I think he is about to kiss me, but he talks.

"D'you know what else I miss?"

I stare at him for a moment, distracted and caught off guard by the mischievousness in the musky voice he'd put on, and when I remember what he actually said again, I shake my head no, furrowing my brow to look curious rather than unexpectedly and suddenly attracted to him.

He smiles at my reaction.

"I miss the playboy centrefolds that I found hidden in the library."

Despite how terrible I feel, I crack up, giggling into my hands and hiding my blushing cheeks like a little school girl. Carl lets out a chuckle, nervously averting his eyes and smirking at the pudding tin in my lap.

"I knew it!" I laugh. "I fucking knew it."

Carl chuckles proudly, satisfied that he has cheered the mood again as he leans away to continue his meal. I compose myself, stifling my laughter into my hands until I have finished, and then, we just keep eating, watching over the dead neighbourhood as we let ourselves smile at it from the roof top.

This is just what happens now. We do bad stuff when we have to. But then, we just get on with it. Because we have to now.

* * *

The sun is beginning to set, so we gather our things and climb down, almost done with the pudding tin, only with a few spoonfuls left.

"Oh. I've got somethin' for you," Carl says as we begin walking down the driveway onto the road.

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

He fishes into his back jeans pocket and pulls out a crumpled, grey piece of fabric. But my eyes widen as he unravels it and presents it to me.

"My beanie!"

Carl smiles and comfortably puts it on my head for me, but regardless, I lift my hands and pull at it, revelling in the sense of comfort and familiarity that the hat has provided for me for the past six or seven months. Carl shakes his head in jest, and after a moment his expression softens and he watches me for a moment.

"Oliver?"

I hold his gaze.

"I'm sorry. You know, for... For being an ass hole."

I'm not sure I've ever heard him apologise to me before. Not like this at least. His pride is usually so stubborn that he refuses to, even if he knows he should, and so, naturally, I am a little shell shocked as I stare at him, managing to collect my thoughts a little as my hand finds his, holding it. Carl pulls himself closer, kissing my cheek, and it takes a lot of concentration not to let my legs give out underneath me.

"Do you forgive me?"

I blink at him.

"'Cause, you know, I just apologised."

Again, I blink.

"An', that was really hard for me."

Then I kiss him. A shy, quick, simple kiss on the centre of his lips, blushing worse as I pull away.

"I forgive you, man."

"Cool."

I grin. "Sap."

"C'mon," he says, jerking his head for me to follow him towards the house.

We finish the tin just as we make it back, so Carl takes it from my hands and drops it on the curb, before walking with me to the back door. He pulls it open, and I listen for Rick. _Do you think he'll be awake yet?__** I don't know… **__But, Rick… He'll be fine. __**He'll probably be in the kitchen making himself some food, and Carl will hug and embrace him and everything will be okay again. It has to be.**_

But I'm wrong. We find Rick in exactly the same state as we left him in the living room. Carl's expression hardens, and I know enough not to say anything as we stare down at the man asleep on the couch. There is nothing _to _say. It's just a matter of waiting now.

Waiting for what exactly. . .

I don't know.

* * *

**Notes**

Hope you enjoyed this chapter, it was a little disorientating, with all the time Oliver slept to recuperate, but hey :) Please leave a little comment on your way to tell me of your thoughts?

Favourite part(s)?

Worst part(s)?

Helpful criticism is truly appreciated :D

I wasn't sure about their kiss in this one, but I just thought it was a good way for them to express how overwhelming everything's been for them lately :) Tell me your thoughts? :)

As always,  
Happy reading xx :)


	16. After, Part 3: I'm Scared

Re-edited: 04/05/2015

* * *

**Eli **Oh my Jesus! Thank you for spending so much time catching up! Hope you enjoy this one xxx

* * *

**Carl's POV**

What if he never wakes up? What if he leaves me, again. What if it's just me and Oliver against the whole fucked up world? I shake my head, reminding myself that I don't care about my father anymore. Because I don't. Regardless, I can still feel the tears welling in my eyes as I watch him, unmoving and oblivious to our presence, just like he will be for the rest of his life, most likely. But, I don't care.

"He's gonna be okay, Carl. He will be," Oliver whispers when I don't say anything for too long.

I shoot him a glare, before stepping over to Dad and taking his gun. I need one now, after I used all my ammo earlier. I can tell that Oliver wants to speak, talk about this, talk about everything, but he keeps his mouth shut and steps aside to let me walk out of the living room and head up stairs.

I don't want to talk about anything right now. I just want to tune it all out. Ignore it, as much as possible if I rather, _because _I can.

Oliver follows me upstairs, pulling off his sheath and carrying it beside him. I glance at his blood stained sneaker, feeling the carpeted staircase under my socked, shoeless foot as well.

"We should find some new shoes," I suggest quietly.

"Okay," Oliver agrees quietly, getting to the top of the stairs and pulling off his blue shoe. "Sneakers aren't really the most practical foot wear."

I know he's only trying to lighten the mood, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lip. But I don't bite this time, instead I watch dismissively as he pokes his finger out of a small hole in his worn sneaker sole, wiggling it at me like a worm.

But then I realise how ridiculous that looks.

In spite of myself a smirk pulls at my lips, but I take the sneaker from his hand and turn away before Oliver can see it for too long, watching him after a moment as he moves on and pulls off his blood stained shoe and hands it over.

I quickly go into the bedroom and pull open the window, tying the sneakers together by their shoe laces, and then throw them both out. Oliver and I lean out of the window and watch them fly through the air until we can no longer see them in the gloom, though we hear as they hit the back yard with a thump and then roll across the grass. Oliver glances at me, smirking with an eyebrow cocked.

"Dramatic much?"

I shrug dismissively and then pull my head back into the room, shivering slightly from the night chill. I look around.

"All right, I'm guessing we'll be doing a lot more walking than driving when we get out of here - we're looking for something sturdy, somethin' that'll last long… Okay?" I say, rummaging around the pile of sneakers and sand shoes by the door.

"So basically, anything but sneakers and sand shoes, right?"

I roll my eyes at him and nod. "Yep. Pretty much."

So I leave the useless foot wear where they are and checking under the bed instead.

"I'll check in the other rooms," Oliver announces, before heading out of the bedroom and into the landing.

I keep looking, but I can't find anything useful, as all the shoes are too thin or too flimsy to be convenient. But then I spot one black shoe on the top of the wardrobe, it's got a white, thick sole and looks practical enough. I grab it. But try as I might, I can't find the other damn shoe that goes with it. I search the whole room, until finally, I do find the other pair's half.

"What the hell?!"

I grimace, half laughing at where I have found the missing shoe. Oliver rushes into the room, holding a pair of hiking boots similar to my old brow pair that I only have the one of now.

"What?" he winces slightly, but his expression is more confused and spooked than in pain. I watch him for a moment, making sure he is okay, before giving him and exhausted look and then motioning to what I had seen previously.

"The damn kid who lived here was insane," I mutter angrily, pointing.

The other shoe, I have now realised, has been made into some kind of art display. It hangs from a hook in the ceiling, with bright paint splatters over the originally black fabric. Odd household objects dangle from it, like fairy lights and cutlery and cheap looking jewellery. We stare at it, furrowing our brows. Maybe if the world hadn't gone to shit and none of this had happened, I would think it looks pretty cool, but all I can think about is the complete pointlessness of 'abstract art' in this world, now.

"Maybe it was an art project for school or something?" Oliver queries, scratching at the back of his head under his beanie hat. I shrug and take a deep breath.

"Well, couldn't he have used a stupid teddy bear. Or somethin'… I don't know - not useful?! Jeeze, what am I gonna wear now? There's nothing else here," I grumble, crossing my arms as I glare at the pointless ceiling ornament.

Oliver laughs quietly, shaking his head a little. I think that the pain medication is helping him, so I guess that's something to be happy about.

"Just wear that one, man."

He taps the shoe under my forearm.

"It's the right foot – I mean, the left, but it's the right shoe that you needed to go with the one you have now… oh, you know what I mean!" he rambles awkwardly.

I chuckle for a moment, but then harden my face and frown at him. "So? Oliver, I'm not wearing odd shoes."

"Sure you are. You don't exactly have a choice," he says, but I don't relent. "Look, no one's gonna even care, except you. Plus, you already have two left feet anyway, maybe having a different shoe colour on each foot might help you tell the difference… you know, that's your left foot." He pats my left leg. "And that's still your right," he says, patting my right leg, mocking me.

"Screw you. I'm not that clumsy," I mutter as I lightly push his shoulder, knowing that I am lying through my teeth, because in all honesty, my hand eye coordination is awful. But it only goes as far as my legs and body. I'm great aim with a fire arm, thankfully. I mean, apart from a few hiccups. Today being a series of big hiccups simultaneously occurring several times in a row… but I think I'll keep that to myself.

Oliver smirks at me, and I am almost certain that he is thinking the same thing, but he holds his tongue for my sake and then pulls on his new matching shoes, leaning on me a little more than he needs to for support.

"Who's clumsy now?" I mock rhetorically.

Oliver chuckles, but we both know that he's doesn't really need to lean on me at all, but I'm not about to tell him to move, so I just stand still, enjoying myself as I play along with pretending to help him stay steady.

When he is finished, he looks up to the bed and walks over to it. I furrow my brow, watching for a moment as he makes the bed, pulling at the sheets and positioning the pillows, as if it's the most expected thing to do in the circumstance. I chuckle quietly and put on my new shoe. Somehow, Oliver's behaviour doesn't surprise me. It's the kind of thing he does.

His family are all dead, his home destroyed, and Oliver makes the bed.

I decide that Oliver should be taking some more medication about now, so I take out two antibiotics from the supply bag and then motion him to follow me into the bathroom. I try the tap, but no water comes out.

"Oh, dammit. This was running yesterday," I mumble, frowning at the dry tap.

Oliver comes in and purses his lips at me. "You must've used the last it had. Wait, why did you use the water anyway?"

"I had to clean your wounds last night, too. Don't worry, the water is clean. Dad said that he checked the tank - said it was full, too," I try the tap again, nothing. "So, it should still be running," I say irritably. "I was gonna get you some water, you need to take two more."

"Nah. I can dry swallow them," he says, taking the two pills from my hand.

"Okay, do you want pain killers, too?" I ask, about to grab them from my pocket.

"No thanks," Oliver shakes his head, crinkling his nose. "But I'm okay for now. I'll just have some more in the morning."

**Oliver's POV**

I toss the pills into my mouth, making an involuntary gagging noise of protest as I struggle to swallow. But I do, finally.

"That was a lot harder than I thought," I grimace, feeling the tablets travel down my throat.

Carl chuckles at me, gently patting my shoulder in mocking praise. I am about to make a sarcastic comment at him that I haven't thought of yet, but I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I double take, staring in shock at the state that I am in.

First, I see the small neat band aid on my right temple, it's about two inches wide over where the cut is, with a red and yellow circle in the middle of it, confirming my suspicions of it being infected. I look at Carl through the reflection in the mirror, gritting my teeth.

"It's infected… you said you didn't know," I try to hide my irritation at him for keeping it from me. He dips his head, averting his eyes.

"I know… I didn't want you to worry," he mutters, before stubbornly looking at me again and straightening his posture a little, silently telling me that he refuses to be sorry for keeping it from me.

I sigh, chewing my lip and nodding in thanks to him. "Can… uh, can you give me a minute?"

Carl looks up at me apologetically and opens his mouth to say something, but I interrupt him.

"It's fine, Carl… Please?"

I know he wants to argue, but he holds his tongue and kindly leaves the bathroom. I nod to him in thanks as he closes the door behind him, then look back at myself; the bruised and battered mess staring back at me. My hand raises to the large purple and blue bruise on the left side of my face, stretching from my left eye across my cheek and down to my chin. I wince as I feel the small scabbing cuts along the bruised skin, and memories of my face hitting the soil just after The Governor hit me flood my mind, making my hands shake, and I have to close my eyes and take deep breaths for a moment to calm myself down again.

I move my hand to the other side of my face, feeling the bandage under my scabbing fingers, and then run my hand down my neck. I pull down the collar of my top, grimacing and wincing as I see the large bruise from where the man I murdered hit me with his rifle just before Hershel was decapitated when I tried to help him. Tears well in my eyes and I press my hand on the contusion, wincing, but glad for the pain, as if I deserve it for not being able to save my friend.

Sobs attempt to emit themselves from my aching throat, but I do well to silence them. I pull off my shirt, and then my top, roughly wiping my tears with the clothing before dropping them on the floor.

But when I look back at myself again, my stomach drops as I see the state that the rest of my body is in. I gingerly pull back the bandage around my middle, before carefully grazing my fingers over the long cut across my abdomen. I don't even remember how this happened. Maybe it was when Michonne and I were running away from The Governor and his soldiers as they tore down the fences, or maybe it was when I fell with that walker as my asthma attack became too much for me. I don't know. But whatever happened, whatever it was that cut me, it wasn't a clean cut. It's jagged and ripped, with swollen and battered skin around the edge.

But I am just glad that Carl and Rick cleaned and patched me up before I saw them. I don't even want to think how bad the injuries must have looked before. So, finally, I pull my bandage back over my cut and then put my top back on, forcing myself to stop wallowing in my self pity for any longer. There are worse things to worry about right now.

Picking up my flannel shirt, I leave the bathroom, tossing my short in the bedroom as I walk past, hearing it slide across the floor in a heap as I head back downstairs. I find Carl sat on the floor, leant against the corner of the couch deep in thought, about what, I couldn't begin to guess.

He looks up to me when I enter.

"Hey," he says quietly, offering me a smaller than noticeable smile as I sit beside him on his left.

"Did you manage to give him anything?" I ask dubiously, motioning to Rick and hearing the wheezy, laboured breathing from him. Carl shakes his head, glancing behind him to his father, before looking back to his lap and frowning.

"I tried," he says, "but he won't wake up."

"He will," I purse my lips. "Eventually, he'll wake up, Carl."

"Yeah? As what?"

Carl barks at me, glaring at me in his anger. I would call it sudden, but I was expecting it. So I hold my ground, being just as stubborn as he is, then, after a moment, Carl relents and looks down to his lap again. I wait patiently for him to soften his face, and after a little while, he does.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

I shrug and look out of the window, staring blankly at the cloudy night through the see through, floral curtain. My eyes drift to the door, and I examine the TV cable tied around the doorknob and the curtain hook, remembering what Carl had said to his father yesterday about it.

"Carl?"

"Yeah."

"Who was Shane?"

**Carl's POV**

I knew that Oliver would ask me eventually. I knew that when things died down and we were alone, that he would remember what I said to my father yesterday night. So, I prepared myself. I thought about what I'd say to him, how to explain everything about what happened in the first few months of all of this.

"Shane Walsh. He was Dad's best friend an' work partner in King County," I say, just like I had rehearsed it in my head. "Shane was there when Dad got shot. An' he saved me and Mom, got us out before it got too bad to leave. He told us Dad was dead. Shane said that when he was in the hospital tryin' to rescue him, he couldn't find a pulse... But... H-he... I don't know... Maybe he didn't wanna save him... Or maybe Mom w-wouldn't leave u-unless he lied about it... I-I don't know for sure... H-he... Him an' Mom... after it all... they, uh, they were..."

This is hard. It doesn't seem to matter that I've rehearsed what to say, how to say it. The words just don't want to come out of me.

The corners of my eyes crinkle as I go over what I wanted to say in my head again, forcing my struggling mind to just say what I need to say. But I can't, and I don't understand why. My frustration builds, and my courage begins to fade at the same rate.

Oliver sits forward, watching me as I meet his gaze, and the familiar golden flecks in his brown eyes are enough to give me the strength that seems to elude me right now. So I take a deep breath, and then, I talk, and I don't stop talking for a long time, not until I am finished, done and exhausted.

I tell Oliver about Mom and Shane's affair. I tell Oliver about how Judith might've been Shane's daughter just as much as she might've been Dad's, but despite that, I tell Oliver that Judith will always have been my sister, and I will always have been her big brother. I tell Oliver that I idolised Shane, respected him, and thought of him as a second father to me. I tell Oliver about how jealous Shane became when my Dad finally came back to us. I tell Oliver about when Mom found out she was pregnant, and Shane wanted me and Mom and the baby to himself. I tell Oliver about Randall, and how my father and Shane kept him prisoner in Hershel's shed. I tell Oliver about when Shane caught me in the shed with Randall, and how Randall tried to convince me to let him go. I tell Oliver about how I encouraged my father when he was going to execute Randall, and how my father chose not to kill him because of me. I tell Oliver that Shane took Randall into the woods, and snapped his neck. I tell Oliver that Shane used Randall's disappearance to lure Dad into the woods alone, to kill him in cold blood. I tell Oliver that Dad figured it out. . . I tell Oliver that I watched my father murder his best friend. I tell Oliver that when my father realised that I was there, that I saw everything, that when he turned to me, begging for me to hear him out as I raised my gun to his head, that I fought against myself on whether or not I could pull the trigger, _should_ pull the trigger. I tell Oliver that Shane came back as a walker. I tell Oliver that if he hadn't, I would have killed my father, but I didn't. I tell Oliver that, confused and afraid, I killed Shane's walker and saved my dad's life.

But when I finally finish talking, I am so completely drained that I am almost unable to keep my eyes open. Without thinking too much about it, I rest my head on Oliver's shoulder.

"Thank you for telling me all of that," he whispers into the top of my head.

"Sorry... you know," I mumble tiredly, taking a deep breath and struggling to think of anything other that how comfortable his shoulder seems right now, "if it was a lot to take in."

Oliver shrugs gently as to not disturb me too much, his lips moving against my hair as he replies. "Maybe it is, a little. But I'm still glad you told me."

**Oliver's POV**

I feel Carl become heavier on me, after everything that he has said over the past few hours, I can't imagine how drained he must feel. I tap his hand, briefly running my finger over the back of it to wake him.

"Don't fall asleep sat here, Carl. Go lie on the cushions," I suggest to him quietly.

He yawns sleepily.

"I-I will," he says, forcing his eyes to open a little more and bringing himself to sit up a little more. "You go to bed. I'll try giving Dad some antibiotics again, an' then I'll go to sleep."

"Are you sure? I can help."

"No, that's fine," Carl shakes his head and fakes a small smile, "jus' get some sleep, you need it."

I watch him for a moment, resisting the urge to kiss him for his selflessness.

"So do you, Carl."

He purses his lips, and then stubbornly motions for me to leave again.

"Sleep," he insists.

I relent, bringing myself to my feet and walking into the hallway. Just as I reach the stairs, I look back to him, seeing him nod to me and bring himself to his knees to try to wake his father from his vegetative state. But I know that Rick won't wake up yet, so I go upstairs before Carl has the chance to admit defeat.

**Carl's POV**

I shake my father's shoulders.

"Dad. C'mon, wake up," I whisper, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. But nothing. He doesn't stir, like I knew he wouldn't, like I know Oliver knew he wouldn't either.

I slump back to the floor, leaning against the couch. I don't realise I am drifting off to sleep after mere moments, and only managing to vaguely consider moving to sleep on the cushions like Oliver told me to, but before I act on my thoughts, I fall asleep where I am.

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

_I dream of that dead puppy from the other house. _

_Only, I am the puppy. _

_I watch, as my body regenerates and grows back its long degraded muscle and skin. My fur grows all over me, smooth and golden. Then, tired and confused and finally alive again, I bring myself to my four shaky legs. I don't know what to do, so I just make my way back to the house that I am hoping Rick and Carl are still at._

_Only as I go, I am crying, no- I'm whimpering. The thing is, I didn't realise that I was even sad, but no matter how hopeful I feel that I will find Carl and Rick in the house, as I climb the steps to the front door, I continue to whimper desperately as I sit in front of the front door, whining and crying for someone to let me in. But my whimpers become louder and louder, and somehow they become sharper, more hysterical, more hopeless, as if they aren't even coming from me any more._

I wake up, frustrated and confused. In my sleepy haze, I am still mad that no one had let me into the house. But I look around, slowly falling back into reality. Only, I realise that the whimpering doesn't stop. But, it's not a puppy. It can't be. Can it?

I slide out from my covers, and then silently tip toe out of the bedroom and into the hallway. I stop at the top of the stairs, and I realise that it _is_ crying that I hear, desperate, terrified crying.

Carl.

I can hear him.

"I'm scared... I'm scared... I'm scared."

He mutters it hopelessly, over and over again.

My heart pounds, and I rush down the staircase, panicking in my terror for what I will find when I reach the living room. Flashes of Rick's living corps attacking Carl invade my mind. Or Carl crying over his father's dead body, only moments before the man awakens and rips into his own son's flesh. But when I do get to the living room, my heart stops.

"Carl?" I utter, as the distraught teenager sits, slumped on the floor with his father's unmoving head rested on his lap. His father's gun lying by their side, safety off.

_No._

Carl looks up to me, mortified and tears streaming down his face. He holds his arm out, mumbling something that I don't understand properly. But it doesn't matter. I rush forward, enveloping my body around him into an embrace. _Rick's dead?_ fumble for the man, my hands shaking as I look at him, feeling his neck for a pulse.

"N-no. H-he's okay," Carl whimpers.

_Oh god! Oh god, I was so scared he'd died! _

Something like a mixture of a sob and a laugh comes out of me, a noise that no other living soul should have the misfortune of hearing, but I'm too overwhelmed with relief to care about it. So I hug Carl, wrapping my arms around his shoulders as he wraps his around my middle.

Carl begins crying again. But I know that there is nothing I can say that will council or console him. Instead, I hold Carl. I hold him so tightly that after a long time, I am no longer sure if it's my heart or his that is breaking.

* * *

Something tickles my nose. I can hardly feel it, but that only makes it more noticeable. I brush it away, but as soon as I put my hand back by what I assume is my side, the tickling returns. So I open my eyes, about to freak out, thinking that it is a disease riddled insect chewing away at the end of my nose. But instead of becoming a hysterical mess like I expected, I smile.

It was Carl's hair.

I don't remember falling asleep last night, or much of anything after I found Carl and Rick down here. But as I glance around the living room, memories reacquaint themselves with my mind - Carl and I carefully lugging Rick back onto the couch and then both of us being too tired and hysterical to prepare ourselves for bed. So, I guess we just slept, sprawled across the floor together.

But we didn't fall asleep like this. It seems that in the night, either Carl has rolled over and snuggled up to me, or I have rolled over and snuggled up to him...

_**Will he mind? **__I don't know...__** Maybe you should move? Just in case he gets mad...**_

Like the coward that I have become aware that I am of late, I slowly shuffle away, carefully and silently removing my head and hand from his chest, and creating a few inches distance between me and Carl. But it is impossible to numb movement, so inevitably, like I feared, Carl wakes up.

I stare at him, heart pounding and bracing myself for him to react. But he doesn't move, he just watches me for a moment.

"Morning, Carl," I take my chances, mumbling a little, but frankly just feeling glad that I can still talk with my surprisingly dry mouth. He blinks, and then looks away for a moment, shivering.

"Hi."

"Here," I whisper, pulling the blanket towards him a little. He nods in thanks and uses it to warm himself up, wrapping it around him some more. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine," he nods and looks up to his father. I look, too, seeing Rick still out cold on the couch. Carl and I look back to each other at the same time, both unsurprised by Rick's unchanged state.

I don't tell Carl that Rick will wake up, because I don't need to, Carl knows now. Rick woke up for a few moments last night, just before I got downstairs. He told Carl to stay safe, to stay inside.

"Thank you," Carl suddenly blurts out quietly.

I furrow my brow, wondering why he feels like he has to thank me so suddenly.

"Uh… Y-you're welcome?" I kind of ask, smiling softly at him.

But Carl puts his hand on my cheek, and we stare at each other for a moment. His pupils expand and his breathing quickens. My smile widens slightly, letting my lips part a little as I do, and then Carl leans closer to me, pulling my cheek slightly with his hand and I close my eyes, about to finally let our lips touch. It's been maybe, sixteen hours since we last kissed, and I am already having withdrawal symptoms.

But suddenly, we both startle at the sound of Rick stirring from his sleep.

With a grunt of shock, Carl moves faster than I have ever seen him move before, sitting upright and staring at his father, with me shortly behind.

We both watch Rick for a long, tense moment, as his breathing becomes rushed and loud with his wheezing, but then, he opens his eyes. I freeze with relief, as Rick's blood shot gaze meets mine. He furrows his brow in confusion.

"C-Carl?"

His words is strained as it comes out. I open my mouth to speak, but my vocal chords won't work.

"Dad."

Rick's eyes snap to his son. The relief on his expression is indescribable, but to say the least, it almost reduces me to tears. Rick reaches for his son, gripping Carl's shoulders as the teenager kneels in front of his father, leaning his shaking hands on the seat of the couch to stop himself from collapsing.

"Carl."

Rick's raspy, struggling voice calls again, pulling Carl down to him for a shaky embrace.

"Are... are you okay?" Rick asks, his hands tensing on Carl's shoulders as the teary teenager pulls away. Carl wipes his eyes and nods.

"Yeah, Dad," he sniffs.

I stand up, figuring I should give the two Grimes' some time to catch up.

"Oliver..." I turn around at Rick's slurred voice and I nod. "How're you feeling?"

"I'm okay, sir," I say. "Thank you, for patching me up and everything. I'm glad you're awake again."

"Thank you for keepin' my boy safe."

"You're welcome. He um... He kept me safe, too."

I go to leave.

"I'm gonna make some breakfast," Carl says, subtly asking me to stay. "Jus' some cereal."

"I'm okay for now. I'll get some later. I'm not really hungry yet," I smile at him, as I know that he won't be very hungry either after all the pudding we ate yesterday. He smirks at me.

"Okay," he says, going into the kitchen to make himself and his father some food. I nod after him, and then nod to Rick. He gives me a friendly salute, and I finally head upstairs to the bedroom.

**Carl's POV**

I go back into the living room to my dad, carrying two bowls full of cheerios. I find him sat on the floor, leant against the couch and I go to sit next to him. Dad furrows his brow as he sees the cereal.

"Where'd you get more food?" he asks as I set myself down.

I chew my lip and glance at him. "Me and Oliver found some in the other houses around here."

"You shouldn't have risked it," he scolds dubiously, his jaw tensing as he takes his bowl. "Goin' out there like that... it's dangerous."

"We were careful."

We were, to be technically honest, it was just the circumstances that became hazardous.

Dad nods. "It's good that you both found more food."

"We found even more" I glance at him, raising my brow, before staring down at my bowl. "But... we ate it."

"What was it?"

"Um..." A smile creeps across my lips and a quiet chuckle escapes them. "One hundred and twelve ounces of pudding."

He laughs, wheezing slightly and shaking his head in jest. I let myself laugh a little, too. There is a short pause.

"I know," Dad states.

My heart suddenly drops. Fuck. About what? Did he see Oliver and I or something? What is he talking about? I keep my sights ahead, waiting for him to enlighten me and doing well to be nonchalant.

"We'll never get things back to the way they used to be."

I look at him and swallow my dry throat.

"What?" I get out, dipping my head slightly in overwhelming relief. Dad continues to stare into the cereal bowl.

"I only clung to that for you... for Judith." His brow raises in regret as he fights his emotions. "Now she's... gone."

He said the last word quieter than a whisper, but it still stabs us both in the gut.

I have to look away.

"An' you," Dad pauses and I meet his gaze again. "You're a man, Carl... You an' Oliver both... You're men... I'm sorry."

I stare at him, my appreciation and respect for my father threatening to suddenly burst from my chest.

"You don't need to be."

**Oliver's POV**

I didn't rest. I just grabbed that book Carl was reading yesterday and began reading it. It's _'Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn,'_ Carol didn't finish it at The Prison. I still don't know what happened to her. I guess it doesn't matter anymore though, we don't know what happened to anyone.

It took a few minutes, but I eventually find the part in the book about the candle, where we left from, and I read from there, re-remembering the story up until that point as I continue reading.

But I read for less than fifteen minutes or so before my head snaps up from the pages with a start, abruptly pulling me from the imaginary world that Mark Twain had temporarily created for me.

I stay silent, swearing that I heard knocking. _**It's in your head, Oliver, just like the rattling yesterday. **__But, that wasn't in my head.__** Oh? Oh. Oh!**_

I pretty much leap out of bed, glad for the pain killers and antibiotics I took when I got in here earlier. I creep downstairs, almost sure that it was in my head by now. But as I descend, I become aware of how painfully quiet everything is. My heart pounds and I instinctively worry for Carl and Rick. I left my machete in the living room, so that is my first priority, especially if the Grimes' aren't in there for some reason.

Silently, I edge to the door way, poking my head inside, relieved to see Carl and Rick. They are both staring at the front door, Carl with his gun raise and aimed at it, and Rick slowly edging around the couch to look through the peep hole. I scope the windows with my eyes, seeing no one outside.

"Psst," I try to get their attention, as they both haven't noticed I am here yet.

Their heads snap around to me and Rick quickly brings his finger up to his lips to silence me, before stepping closer to the door. I exchange a worried glance with Carl, tip toeing over to him and motioning for my sheath. Silently, he grabs it for me and passes it over.

I hold my machete in my hand, glad that it doesn't hurt as much as it could, as my wounds are beginning to heal. That's definitely a good thing, because I am afraid that I might need all the strength I have in me very soon…

But suddenly, as Rick stares through the peep hole, the tension in the room so thick that a walker would struggle to walk through it. . .

He bursts out laughing.

Wheezy fits of laughter push their way from his curled mouth and I am sure that he has gone completely mad. Whatever is on the other side of that door has managed it! It's finally broken him. _**Don't be stupid, Oliver, he's laughing. He's not insane! **__Why the fuck is he so happy then?!_

"What?!" Carl hisses, just as confused and flustered as I am.

Rick stumbles away from the door, clutching his middle as he rolls over onto the couch, struggling to stifle his laughter. _Jesus, are you sure he's not insane?__** Just… give him a minute.**_ I shuffle uneasily on my feet, feeling my stomach jolt from my nerves. Rick looks up to us, that familiar, crooked, Grimes smile plastered over his bruised and cut up lips.

"It's for you."

* * *

**Notes**

YAAYYY! Michonne's back! Oh, spoiler alert, I guess. Oh, come on! If that's a spoiler then you obviously don't watch the show. And if you don't watch the show then what are you doing here?!

Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please leave a little comment on your way out to tell me of your thoughts :)

Favourite part(s)?

Worst part(s)?

Helpful criticism is truly appreciated :D

Preview: The next chapter will be an in between, or rather, a 'filler' kind of chapter. I think is what you call them at least. I dunno what exactly will happen, I haven't really planned it yet. I'll just see what happens to our lovely boys. Bearing in mind, that now Michonne is there, Carl will most likely be giving up his cushion bed for her, and that means he'll be sharing the bedroom with Lovely Oliver. But don't worry, I won't let them get carried away with themselves… yet. * evil laugh * :D hope you enjoy the next one, whenever it may be coming :) -_- Okay, just so you know, that wasn't suppose to be a pun… Seriously, it's wasn't! But I am deciding to leave it in there anyway, for the laughs, or whatever xx :D

I will post a new chapter every day :)

Happy reading :)


	17. You're Not a Coward

**Eli** THANK YOU I ADORE YOU!

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

I honestly believe that I have never felt so completely confused in my entire life. I stare at Rick, resisting the urge to rush over to him and shake the sanity back into his head. Carl looks like he is about to do the same thing, but instead, he moves around the couch and lines his face up to the peep hole. He quickly glances over his shoulder at me, and I just stare uneasily, so he turns back to the peep hole and finally looks through.

Carl's palms suddenly slam into the wooden surface and he makes a noise, the kind of noise that comes from deep in the pit of your stomach and never has the intention to actually ever be heard. I would burst out laughing if it were any other circumstance. But suddenly, that is exactly what Carl does. He almost explodes with laughter, and I startle horrifically.

_This is unbearable! What the fuck is their problem?_

I am close to screaming at them both to explain themselves, but Carl begins fumbling with the cable on the door, struggling because his hands are shaking violently, but he takes care of it, untying it and then ripping it from the door knob, before swinging the door open, and I squint as the morning light blinds me, making my head throb.

But then Carl leaps out of the door and I almost run after him, scared that he has run into a trap. But in the midst of my wincing, my eyes focus on who is outside, and every ounce of fear or doubt I possibly possessed a moment ago completely disappears. . .

Michonne.

Tears just materialise, spilling from my eyes as I watch, completely overpowered by my joy, as Carl clings to Michonne and she wrap her arms around him.

"Y-you're here! You're alive," Carl whines into her dreadlocks.

"Yeah. I was the last time I checked."

Michonne laughs, tears brimming her own eyes and looking rather surprised as well as ecstatic. It's not often that Carl shows so much affection in front of so many people, but she's not complaining. Carl finally pulls away and comes back inside, allowing Michonne inside the house for the first time, both of them with permanent grins on their faces. Michonne embraces Rick, mumbling something to him before pulling away and looking at the two of them. But then she sees me, cooped in the corner of the room, suppressing my sobs of overwhelming relief.

Carl laughs at me.

The fucker.

"Oliver!" Michonne breathes, rushing over to me and I realise that I have began moving to her, too.

I wrap my arms around her, crying like a child into her neck and burying my face into her dreadlocks. This is where I'd like to use the excuse that I still am a child, but the truth is, I am just a complete emotional mess right now. But who can blame me? We all thought everyone was dead. Having Michonne here, finally reuniting with us; it's more than I had ever expected, or ever even let myself hope for.

My relief and despair is just too much, so I don't let go of Michonne, not for a long time. I just mumble inaudibly at her. Talk that I don't even remember as soon as I say it - half trying to calm myself down and the other half saying ridiculous words of relief and appreciation to her.

Finally, I trust myself enough not to burst out crying again and I release her. She grins at me, wiping the tears that spill from her eyes.

"I'm so glad you're all okay," she says, holding my shoulder. My eyebrows arch.

_**Don't you dare cry again, Oliver! Fucking keep it together.**_

"I-I'm so glad y-you're a-all right, t-too," I hiccup ridiculously.

Carl walks over to me and hugs me, rubbing circles into my back to get me to settle, but he's still laughing at me. I begin laughing too, and soon, Rick and Michonne start. So, for a perfect moment we all laugh, and for a perfect moment we are all a family again. Granted, an odd, dysfunctional and mostly unrelated family, but regardless, we're a family all the same.

* * *

"We don't need more food," Carl protests, beginning to get offended that anyone would say otherwise. Being the brilliant Stubborn Grimes I adore so much. "We got more than enough yesterday."

Michonne shakes her head and leans her elbows on the table. "There's no such thing as 'more than enough' anymore, Carl. We need everythin' we can get our hands on."

He does well not to roll his eyes, pretending that the novelty of having Michonne back with us has worn off, but we both know that's not true, and that Carl is still completely buzzing from her being here. I am, too.

Michonne raises her eyebrows at him, before focusing on the map that he drew of the neighbourhood earlier. We are planning to go out on a run for a few hours - me, Carl and Michonne. Rick can't come with us, much to his dismay, because he's too weak right now. He was up for a few hours earlier, but he had to rest again because he became too tired. But when we try to wake him up to eat he does wake up now so he's definitely getting better.

"What are you gonna use for a weapon though?" I ask Carl.

Carl furrows his brow as he thinks, leaning against the dining room table. He still hasn't got ammo for his gun. He gave his father's gun back before Rick realised he had taken it. But I know that he won't ask his father for his gun, not after taking it before.

"Uh, I could use a knife from the kitchen," he answers finally. Michonne opens her mouth, and it is obvious that she is about to ask why he doesn't just used Rick's gun, but Carl interrupts her. "We don't want to attract any walkers with a shot, I'll be fine."

Michonne nods, letting herself get convinced with a little reluctance behind it, and I very carefully don't make eye contact with Carl to spare his pride.

"All right," she says, and then turns to me. "Oliver, you sure you're gonna be okay out there? Carl told me you've been havin' a hard time healin', too."

I nod, glancing at the small scabbing cut on her forehead where she must have been hit. My mind drifts to when The Governor kidnapped us in the woods, just before I was whacked by him, when, for a moment, I saw Michonne slumped on the floor at my feet. I didn't even have time to be afraid for her. I couldn't help her, or Hershel.

"Yeah," I answer before my thoughts become intrusive, and then turn to Carl. "Someone's gotta look out for Walker Bait over here."

He rolls his eyes, and I lazily reach over and noogy the side of his head. He jolts his head, grunting as he pushes my arm away.

"Jerk."

I smirk at him, and then look back at Michonne. "I'll be okay."

Michonne nods in acceptance.

"So, what's the game plan?" Carl asks her.

Michonne takes a deep breath.

"All right. You both'll take the houses on this side of Walker Street," she says, pointing at the drawn road and the row of houses.

I try not to smirk at the ironic name of the street, but Carl notices and he smirks too, exchanging an amused glance with me.

"Hey, you even listening?" Michonne snaps.

We startle.

"Yes," we both say at the same time, me adding a quiet, "ma'am," to the end.

She exhales slowly, narrowing her eyes in jest before turning back to the map and pointing at the appropriate houses.

"I'll take the other side... We'll work our way parallel to each other from the first houses, going this way. Alright, so, you two on this side, me on the other. And before you argue, I want you two to go together because you don't have guns," she says, although neither me or Carl are indifferent to spending a few hours alone together. "I'll be fine on my own."

"Okay," I say, and Carl nods.

"If you get separated, we'll all meet up back here," Michonne says. "If you run into trouble - walkers, people, anything you're not sure of… you run, but if you're being followed, don't come back here to the house. Try to circle around and loose them, or hide out somewhere until you're sure you can come back. Alright, you got that?"

Carl and I nod, and Michonne smiles.

"Good," she says. "Right, you know what we're lookin' for?"

"Food. Supplies. Water. Toothpaste," I list on my fingers.

"And we need your antibiotics, too," Carl reminds me and I nod. Rick's wounds are healing well, so he said that I should use the antibiotics for myself.

"Okay. Uh, should we find more clothes?" I ask, glancing mockingly at Carl's filthy top and shirt, earning a subtle yet painful jab to my rib cage from his elbow. "Ow."

"Sorry," Carl says, staring at me in concern when I wince, but I shake my head and chuckle at him, before looking at Michonne for her answer to my question.

"I wouldn't bother," Michonne shakes her head. "There's enough here. We'll jus' focus on food, water, meds and supplies for today."

We nod, and I ignore the smirk of triumph from Carl. So, with as much prepared for the run as we can, we gather an empty supply bag each. I quickly make sure that I have my inhaler in my pocket, and Carl leaves his father a note on the kitchen counter explaining where we will all be, and with that, the three of us head out on our supply run.

The first two houses go by without incident. Michonne usually finishes her search a few minutes before Carl and I - despite her only being one person. But when we come out, we're never surprised to see her stood at the edge of the front yard waiting patiently for us.

This house in no different.

Carl and I emerge from the front door, supply bags almost full with canned goods, medication and bottled water. Everything we need, but like Michonne said, there's never enough food and water, so that's what we'll be looking for in the next few houses. I even found a scrabble set. Carl said that he doesn't know how to play, so obviously, that's my next mission. All in all, a successful run so far.

We spot her stood at the end of the yard waiting for us, her supply bag full and now carrying another that is already a third of the way full, too, with her hip cocked a little as she rest one leg. I nod to her and she gives us a friendly salute, before signalling us to go onto the next house along.

Michonne disappears into the house opposite once Carl and I have broken the door open, using my machete this time, and we go inside together.

As soon as we walk in though, we know that there is a walker somewhere.

I close the front door, gripping my machete as Carl readies his kitchen knife. We stay quiet, Carl using that listening technique I showed him all those months ago while we explored the tombs.

We hear it again, a sort of shuffling coming from up stairs. So Carl steps towards the staircase, oblivious to the other undead corps slumped behind the living room door. But I see the lurker before it even jumps out on him. It growls, and lunges from the living room doorway to sink its teeth into his ankle. But before it even touches him, I have plunged my machete through its rotten cranium.

Carl jumps back, gulping as he stares at the dead walker. "Shit."

I swallow, bringing my eyes away from it to the boy.

"Whoa… Thanks," he says, looking at me too. "Uh. That was a quiet one."

I nod, trying my best to smile, but truthfully I want to flick his ear for being so unaware of his surroundings, trying not to wonder how the fuck he's even managed to survive for this long, and I feel myself glaring at him. Carl sighs, impatiently rolling his eyes.

"_Thank you,_" he says sarcastically. "Now let's go."

But I remain where I am, narrowing my eyes at him.

I hate close calls, and there have been too many over the last few days, especially for him. It's infuriating. But he has no idea how terrified I always am for him. My annoyance and fear for losing my best friend builds, and flashes of Carl's blue eyes becoming glazed over and lifeless, with no trace of the boy I adore so much left inside. It's almost too much to bear. I want to tell him this, but I'm too cowardly.

But then, Carl slides his hand into my own. I open my eyes, not even realising that they were shut, seeing him watching me with the corners of his eyes crinkled in concern. I wonder what has gotten him so worried, but I then realise that my hands are shaking.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, tentatively adjusting his hand to encourage our fingers to tangle together.

My shaking stops and my fear for him lessens to a suffer-able amount.

I smile at him, a small, worried smile, but a smile all the same. "It's okay. Come on."

I pull him to follow me upstairs.

"We'll just take out whatever is up here, and then we can look for food."

"It's called looting," he corrects me as we climb.

"I know," I say quietly, rolling my eyes. "I never liked calling it that though - feel's wrong."

"That's 'cause it _is_ wrong."

I stop and turn to him, about to say something that justifies what we have to do now to survive, but that's all it is, surviving. A man's got to eat, and this is the only way we can now. But as I open my mouth, I am cut short by the shuffling noise again. We stay silent, listening as the sound continues, along with a few growls.

"Does it sound… different, somehow?" Carl whispers.

I furrow my brow, trying to place why the noise sounds so strange. "Yeah, it does… kind of… lighter or something."

We get onto the landing and check different rooms in order as we go along, and when we find nothing we close the doors behind us. We get to the last room, the one that we can still hear the walker inside of, and we ready our weapons. Carl takes the door handle, and then quickly pushes it open, standing back as we are expecting a walker to fall out and come after us. But my heart and stomach drop in unison, and we both freeze to the spot when we see it.

It's a baby.

It hisses and shrieks at us, crawling terribly on all fours. One of its legs has been ripped off, and it struggles to move. We should put it down, kill it. But Carl and I just stare at it in horror as it drags itself towards our feet, snapping its jaw at us. To my terror, I see that the baby has only got two teeth. It must have only just been teething when it died.

_God._

But then Carl begins crying. He clambers away from the baby, but in his terror and despair, he falls back, landing in a sobbing heap on the floor and desperately scrambling away from the baby as it makes a beeline for him, it's skin grey and rotten and wrinkly and scaly, it's expression contorted in hunger, the sight something that shouldn't even be in someone's nightmares.

_Oh, fuck._

I hesitate. Somehow bringing myself to kill an infant walker seems too barbaric. Too inhuman. Too monstrous. But I know that if I don't, Carl won't be able to. So I bury my terror and drive my machete through its tiny skull, and the child finally goes still.

"Oh Jeeze," I pant, swallowing to try and get my stomach to settle.

Carl clambers to his feet, visibly shaking all over as he wipes his tears and stares down at the dead baby. I know that he is thinking of Judith. I know that he is thinking that this is what happened to her…

I think we all know that this is what really happened to her.

Tears continue to flow from his eyes, and he hiccups into the back of his hand as he tries to stifle them. I step closer to him and hug him, and he bear hugs me back, sobbing into my shoulder.

"I'm so sorry about Judy," I mutter into his neck.

He lets out a cry into my shoulder, shaking his head and holding me even tighter. My heart breaks for him. Eventually, his crying settles and he pulls away, roughly wiping his face dry with his dirt covered sleeve.

"C'mon. House's clear now. We should keep lookin'," he says, averting his eyes in unnecessary embarrassment for his breakdown.

I force my eyebrows not to arch in sympathy, knowing that Carl would only feel worse if I made a fuss over him. So instead, we head back downstairs and begin to search the house.

* * *

We only found three cans in the kitchen, and they were all sliced mushrooms. Better than nothing I guess. We scope the whole house one more time, coming back into the kitchen to look there again, just to make sure. But we find nothing.

We have only been in the house for a quarter of an hour at most, so we both know that, for once, we will have finished long before Michonne. But there has to be something that we can find. Something that we have missed. So I glance out of the kitchen window to the back yard, and sure enough, I see a grape bush. I gasp in awe, staring at the beautifully-more-fruit-than-foliage bush.

"Oh my god! Carl."

He was making his way down the hallway for the exit, almost stumbling from my shout as he rushes back into the kitchen.

"What? Is it walkers?" he asks worriedly, kind of reminding me of when he would rush around the corner of the Office Block when Rick would call for him. I smile.

"Look," I say, motioning to the window.

**Carl's POV**

My mouth drops open as my eyes fall upon the grape bush. I bob on my feet as I lean over the sink in front of the window, my excitement getting the better of me.

Fresh fruit.

"Come on."

Oliver takes my shoulder. I grin at him, and we both head to the back door together. The keys were in the drawer beside the door, so we make quick work of opening it. We poke our head out, and upon seeing that the small, fenced yard is clear, we head over to the bush.

I never thought that I would appreciate the taste of fruit more than pudding, but here I am, practically drooling as I stuff grape after grape into my mouth. I had forgotten how sweet and fresh fruit tasted, and we eat like walkers, devouring more than we probably should, but there is plenty here. Eventually, after a few minutes, we manage to stop eating.

"I'll go an' grab some containers from inside," I say. "These'll last for a day or two."

Oliver nods and begins harvesting the grapes, keeping them in a temporary bowl that he has created out of his top. I smile, because in using his clothing like that, he is showing the skin of his abdomen and I can see the thin line of hair he has there just above his pelvis. A 'snail trail' I remember Glenn say once, as the topic arose when he and Shane were teasing me about what I had to look forward to during puberty at the Farm, and well, it takes more than I was expecting to look away from Oliver.

What can I say? I'm a teenager.

I go back into the house and find a few plastic containers inside the kitchen cupboards, and then head back outside to Oliver, laughing when I see that he has almost filled his top with the fruit.

"Here."

I hand him a container to empty the grapes into, taking a subtle glance at his revealed skin at the last moment before he covers himself again. Then we continue to harvest the grapes, filling both plastic containers to the brim. I allow myself to get excited about showing Dad and Michonne our haul when we return back at the house. But in my buzz, I become a little unfocused. My finger catches a branch at an odd angle and I when I absentmindedly pull my hand away. . .

The plant slices into my skin.

I gasp, shaking the painful sting from my hand.

"You okay?" Oliver asks worriedly.

I examine my finger.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just caught it on the stupid bush," I mutter, frowning at my minor injury as a few drops of blood trickle out from it.

"Come here, let me look," Oliver says, stepping closer to me and taking my hand. He purses his lips as he examines it, fingering around the edge of the cut to see how deep it is, but I try to pull my hand away in fear of pain.

"I won't hurt you. I promise," Oliver reassures me, gesturing for me to give me his hand again.

I relax, gazing into his trusted orbs as I let him take my extremity back. But then, he lifts my hand and places the side of my finger to his mouth. I stare at him, mesmerized as he gently closes his lips over my cut. I don't really know how to react, but I don't protest, because like Oliver said, he doesn't hurt me.

Then I feel him run his tongue over the laceration.

My breath catches and my eyes almost roll to the back of my head, but I stop myself from reacting in such a way and watch carefully with an amazing mixture of curiosity, confusion, and overwhelming attraction for Oliver, and he doesn't look at me, he just focuses on 'cleaning' my cut for a moment, before releasing my hand and letting me drop it by my side.

He meets my gaze and I just stare at him, completely hypnotised with a strange intensity that I have never felt towards Oliver before, and I suddenly crave to discover and learn more about it.

"There," he says, quieter than a whisper.

Then, with no thought or hesitation from either of us. . .

Oliver and I are kissing.

I don't know who moved first, but I don't think about that as I focus on his lips, those brilliant, soft, warm lips, and entwining my fingers through his hair, exploring under his brilliant beanie hat. Oliver holds my waist, hooking his fingers through my belt loops and pulling me closer to him, pressing all of himself against all of me. I follow his lead, leaning into him, concentrating on the heat that spreads from him and seems to soak into my hands and lips and body.

After a long, wonderful moment, Oliver breaks our kiss, but instead of moving away, he slowly brings his lips to my ear. I dip my head slightly so that my own lips are close enough to the crook of his neck that I can feel the brilliant heat coming from it, and both of us stay there for a little while, catching our breath, panting in our excitement, and I can feel Oliver smiling against my ear. Then, with his next words, my heart threatens to jump out of my throat and run away with itself. . .

"I love you."

My breath catches in his ear, paralysed with a completely new emotion that I am unable to explain. I stay where I am, unable to process his words, awe stricken and taken aback. Oliver gently pulls away, and I stare at him in a daze, wondering if I'd heard him right over the blood pounding in my ears, and my breathing becomes shaky and irregular, and I gaze between his focused, brown orbs, unable to bring my words to my open mouth.

Oliver smiles softly. "Like, really, really."

"Erm."

"You don't have to say anything," he whispers. "I just... really, needed you to know. I'm... I've been so scared of what you'd think of me. Scared of what'll happen if I tell you the truth… I know you think I'm a coward for not putting my parents down - just like Joe Jr, and… I know that I _am_ a coward. So I needed to tell you. I needed you to know… I totally love you, Carl."

My eyes well up. My chin shakes. He said that I didn't have to say anything, so I don't. Instead my reply is physical. I kiss him. I'd never noticed before, but just below his right ear Oliver owns a small birthmark. So I decide right then and there to rise up on tip toes and kiss it, too, hearing Oliver let out a short, breathy gasp into my ear, hugging me tighter, so I do it again, and for a fleeting moment I consider biting it, but I don't do that because the irony of it kind of makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time, so instead I just wonder how on earth I'd never noticed it before, suddenly making an oath to myself to never not pay attention to it again.

Oliver turns his head to look at me and I snicker, pressing our foreheads, convinced I'm going mad, convinced he thinks I'm going mad, too, though I can't help feeling slightly proud of myself for making him look like he might just collapse to the floor right in front of me. But his hand comes up, touching my cheek, pulling. . .

We kiss again.

When we part, however long later, I think about what he said. A confession? A statement? A promise? It's all too overwhelming to try to decipher, so I let my mind drift to what he'd said before that, about his parents.

"I don't think you're a coward, Oliver." I pause. "I mean. Maybe I did, before. But… I get it." It's true. Everything that happened last night confirmed that for me. "When my dad woke up… last night," I say. "Before you came downstairs an' helped me with him… I… I thought he'd turned."

"Oh, shit." He pauses and strokes my cheek with his little finger. "W-what happened?"

"I was gonna shoot him." I shake my head slightly. "But I couldn't do it either." I explain. "I don't know... Maybe we're jus' both cowards."

"Maybe," he says, breathing a sympathetic chuckle, but then his expression becomes serious. "How did you find out that he wasn't a walker?"

I avert my eyes, building my courage to tell Oliver the worst part.

"I didn't."

Oliver blinks.

"I was gonna let him get me. I didn't want to fight anymore. I jus'… wanted it to be over."

"No," he breathes, almost as if he didn't mean to say it, and his expression drops. Then he's hugging me, kissing the top of my head, and I let myself melt into him.

It's me who pulls away. "We should go find Michonne."

"Okay," Oliver says.

I take his hand and gently pull him to walk with me, and we both head back through the house with our full supply bags and plastic containers. We let go of each other just as we get to the front door, and Oliver pulls it open. But suddenly, he cries out in pain, doubling over as the bright sun hits him. We'd been in the shade out in the garden, and now coming out into the sun must have been too much for him from his injuries.

"Oliver!" I gasp, catching him as he begins to tip over, grunting in pain and clutching his head with his hands.

"You okay?!"

I hear Michonne from the other side of the street, she'd been waiting for us like we thought she would. I look up to her and beckon her over, and she rushes to us, sliding her katana back into its sheath. Oliver tries to right himself, but he has to sit down against the wall of the porch.

"Dammit. I can't," he groans, wincing as Michonne crouches down in front of him and takes his shoulder.

"What is it?" I ask, trying not to sound panicked for Oliver's sake.

"I think it's your concussion… or it could be symptoms of your infection," Michonne says, furrowing her brow in concern. "Carl, c'mon, take his other arm. Oliver, we're gonna take you back to the house."

"No. I'll be okay. Jus' give me a minute."

"No," Michonne argues. "Oliver, we shouldn't have let you come out here at all. You're not well enough. We were stupid to let you come."

Michonne and I help him stand when Oliver relents. He doesn't really have a choice in his condition. Michonne's right, Oliver isn't well enough. After yesterday, I should've known that.

* * *

We get back to the house, Michonne only had to take out one walker that ambled across us, but it only took one effortless swipe to slice its skull in half. When we get through the back door, we are expecting Dad's rushing footsteps as he comes to greet us.

"Glad you're back," he says worriedly.

"Did you get our note?" Michonne asks. Dad nods, and then notices Oliver's weakened state.

"What happened?" he asks nervously. "Was he bit?"

"No," I almost bark. "No, it's jus' his head."

"Okay." Dad sighs in relief and gently pats Oliver's back. "C'mon, let's get you to rest," he tells him. "Carl? Could you get him some antibiotics an' a few pain killers?" he asks me, as Oliver's medication management has become pretty much all of my responsibility. "Or is it too early?"

I think for a moment, figuring that it must be about lunch time now so it should be the right time to take his third and fourth antibiotics of the day.

"Yeah. I'll get a drink," I say, removing myself from under Oliver's arm and going to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, before fishing out the medication and then heading upstairs to find the three of them in the bedroom. Oliver is sat on the bed, putting up with the small fuss that Dad is giving him as he examines the wound on his temple.

"I think it's just your concussion, your cut looks a lot better than the other day," Dad tells him, squinting as he examines the cut. Oliver purses his lips politely and then glances at me, silently begging me to help him. It's not that he doesn't appreciate Dad and Michonne's care, he just isn't one for milking an illness.

Just like Patrick.

"Dad…" I cock an eyebrow as he looks at me, "I think we got it from here."

"You're right, sorry," he says, walking over to me and putting his hand on my shoulder. "You okay?" he asks, smiling comfortingly at me.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah I'm fine. We're fine," I answer, smiling a little. "Oh, we found some grapes. Filled two containers."

Dad's face lights up more than it already was. "Great."

"Wait?" Michonne walks over to me. "Grapes?" she asks with her brow raised in joy, and I nod. "Nice you two. Oh, I can't even remember what grapes taste like. Rick, c'mon, let's go get our hands on 'em."

"Save some for us though," Oliver warns in jest as Dad and Michonne make their way downstairs. I turn to Oliver and give him the tablets and the bottle. He swallows them and then sets the bottle on the bedside table.

I remember something.

"I'll be right back," I say suddenly, before rushing out of the bedroom and catching the befuddled look from Oliver as I leave, going and grab the scrabble set from the supply bag in the kitchen, snickering to myself when I see Dad and Michonne sat at the dining room table devouring some of the fruit and making friendly conversation between their mouthfuls.

They don't see me, so, without them realising I am down here, I head back upstairs, eager to learn how to play the game.

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Carl is a great scrabble player. We play for a few hours, glad to have something to pass the time. I probably should be resting, but there's plenty of time for that later. Instead, Carl and I just keep playing. Though, I think that Carl is running out of word ideas because I am sure that he is just making them up now.

"Carl… _'Ostentatiousness'_ isn't a word. _'Ostentatiously'_ is… You go 'L' and 'Y' in there anywhere? Put them on the end instead," I tell him as he adds 'NESS' onto the end of the word I had put down before.

"What? No way! Ostentatiousness it totally a word," he protests with a smirk, because he knows he is talking bullshit.

"No," I say. "No it's not. Just put a 'ly' on the end."

Carl rolls his eyes. "I don't have an 'L' or a 'Y' though. I'm sure it could be a word."

"No," I argue. "I'm not making up a crappy word just so you don't have to admit defeat. You're so competitive! You've lost. Admit it!"

I push his shoulder with mine, and he pushes me back.

"It's a word."

He knows he's talking shit.

"No it's not!" I laugh and Carl narrows his eyes playfully. "Jeeze, you're ridiculous! Look, I'll prove it."

"How?" he asks as I stand up from the floor that we were both just sprawled across.

"Dictionary," I answer, enjoying the flicker of worry on Carl's face as he knows that I'm about to prove him wrong. "There's bound to be one in here somewhere."

He takes a deep breath, rolling over onto his back and bending his leg at the knee, nonchalantly staring up at the ceiling and tapping a made up tune into his chest.

"Fine, whatever," he says

I search on the shelves in the bedroom. But when I don't find one I go over to the bed, lifting the mattress and checking under it for anything. I do find something, but it's not a dictionary…

I smirk.

"You know. We may not have your mom's gross Sunday pancakes… or Michonne's stale M&amp;M's anymore…" I begin, glancing at Carl as I pull the object that I found out from between the mattress.

Carl frowns at me in confusion as I walk over to him, concealing what I've found.

"But we'll always have the centrefolds."

That's when I drop the playboy magazine on his stomach.

Carl looks at what it is, and when he sees the blond woman on the cover with her photos-shopped, long legs, spread _impossibly_wide to reveal her bald womanhood. . .

He bursts out laughing.

I begin laughing too, doubling over as I slump to the floor beside him, laughing so hard that after a while it hurts. Finally, Carl turns to me as we manage to compose ourselves again, still grinning like a fool, and we stare at each other, until Carl rolls over a little and kisses my forehead, just a quick press and release.

I smile at him, and he smiles back.

"I think I'm sleeping up here tonight, if that's okay with you?"

I nod.

"Yeah," I whisper. "I'll go ask your Dad. . . leave you and the centrefold together," I joke, earning an almost giddy chuckle from The Grimes as I bring myself to my feet and go out of the bedroom, leaving the grinning teenager on the floor with the dirty magazine still rested on his chest. But I have a hunch that he won't really read it for various reasons.

I find Rick reading his book on the couch, hearing Michonne in the kitchen sorting through our food and supplies.

"Hey, uh, Mr. Grimes?"

"Oliver," he looks up to me. "Everything all right up there? I'm starting to forget I even have a son."

"Sorry," I apologise, but Rick shakes his head and chuckles, letting me know that he is only joking. "Uh, yeah, we're great," I answer, "uh. Carl and I were just wondering, the sleeping arrangements, for the night. You know, 'cause Michonne's here now."

Rick seems to think over what I am saying, until he nods a little and then cranes his neck to look at Michonne.

"Michonne?"

She pokes her head through the doorway to look at us.

"Where d'you wanna sleep tonight?"

"Um. I don't mind. Are there any more bedrooms up there?" she asks me, motioning with her eyes to upstairs.

I nod. "Uh, yeah. One more."

"Okay, I'll take the couch. Rick, you can sleep up there - have a bed for once," Michonne suggests.

Rick shakes his head. "No."

My heart drops, because truthfully I am really hoping that one of them will take the room so that I don't have to, and then Carl can bunk with me like he said he wanted to.

"I'll take the couch. You need a bed more than I do. And I'll have the cushions on all of the couch now 'cause Carl can go in with Oliver," he says, and my smile returns. "That'll be okay with you," Rick turns to me, and I try not to look as ecstatic as I feel, "right?"

"Yes, sir."

Michonne relents, and nods in defeat to the man. Neither Rick or Michonne say anything more about Carl and I sleeping upstairs together. They have no reason to, I suppose. But they don't need to anyway.

So with that, I say good night to both of them and head back up stairs.

I find Carl still lead on his back on the floor, though the centrefold has been dismissively flung across the room and is now resting under the desk, fallen open on a page that seems devoted to different 'exotic' sex positions.

"What did he say?" Carl asks, sitting up to talk to me.

"It's fine," I shrug and sit next to him with my legs crossed. "They just kind of… assumed. You know?"

"Oh. Okay," Carl says. He pauses, looking down at his lap for a moment and twiddling his thumbs. "Uh, Oliver?"

I look at him and nod. "Yeah?"

"W… uh… what are we now?"

_Oh._

I knew that Carl would want to talk about this eventually. I just somehow thought that he would take a little longer to figure out what he wanted to say, but I guess after telling him I love him today, it has prompted him to press a little more on the subject. I'm glad he's not afraid to confront me about it.

"I mean, uh, are we, uh, boyfriends… or… or whatever?"

I can't help but grin at his nervousness.

"Well, what do you _want_ us to be?" I ask dubiously, chewing my lip.

Carl purses his lips, pausing for a moment as he decides his next words and I am afraid that the casual front that I am putting up will be foiled by the quickening thump of my heart beat. Until finally, he looks up to me and takes a deep breath.

"Oliver, do you wanna be my boyfriend?"

He crinkles his nose and chews his lip, and my heart pounds so fast that I am afraid that it will leap from my throat. I accidentally chuckle, my nerves overtaking me as I wasn't expecting him to be quite so blunt. The colour drains from Carl's face, irritation and embarrassment sweeping his expression. I straighten my face, knowing that it is taking every ounce of Carl's will power to talk to me like this, and so I nod.

"Yeah," I say quietly. "I'd like that, Carl."

The displeasure disappears from his expression and is replaced with a smile. A smile that spreads wider on Carl's face than I have ever seen it before and I stare in awe at his familiar facial features. For the whole time I have known Carl, he never ceases to amaze me in some way or another, and he doesn't fail now either.

"Good," he whispers, and then glances at my lips, slowly moving closer to me. "Since the Prison… I, uh, I didn't know… you know?.. uh, h-how you'd react."

My smile widens as he continues to slowly edge closer to me, continuing with his words.

"I w-was jus' thinkin'… well, uh, wondering really… uh… If it'd be okay to kiss you again… if… if it was _appropriate._"

I chuckle. I would say that his words give me butterflies, but it isn't just butterflies this time, it's a whole fucking nature reserve, completely mesmerized by the adorable, low voice he is using as he rambles, I nod a little.

"Uh, so… Is it appropriate?.. To kiss you now?"

I nod again and let out a small chuckle.

"Yeah. It's appropriate."

Our faces are so close now that there is less than a centimetre between our lips. I can feel his breath, warm and tickling my chin, and when he blinks I can almost feel his eyelashes brush against mine.

"Good."

I tip forward, unable to wait a moment longer as I reacquaint my lips with his again. My hand rises to tangle my fingers into that glorious mop of his, gently pulling him closer. I don't exactly know how quickly Carl wants to go with this, or even if he wants to go any further any time soon at all. He's only fourteen, and I know that being ten months older than him; I'm still only just a little more sexually aware than he is. Though, I'm still surprised when Carl pushes me to lie down, leaning over me propped up on his elbows. But my butterflies settle when that seems to be where the escalation of intimacy stops. Although, it isn't a few moments later that I feel him balance himself on just the one arm. I wonder why for a second, but I soon find out why when his fingers suddenly slip under my top. I make a noise, but then I'm kissing him harder, catching myself off guard, and he runs a path of thumb grazes all the way up my abdomen, being careful when he touches my bandage.

I'm not really able to stop my stomach from twitching.

He breaks our kiss, and his face moves to my neck, and inside I'm flipping tables and screaming and laughing hysterically at the top of my lungs, but on the outside I'm kind of just gasping and pulling and fidgeting. . .

Then he does something. It's fast, done gently and lightly and like he isn't even really sure if he should, but he draws my skin into his mouth, and his teeth are there, and I'm so caught off guard that I almost yelp. He pulls back, startled.

"Sorry."

I'm shaking my head, "It's cool. It's... totally... _Totally_totallycool."

He laughs, and I do, too, and then we're kissing again. Carl's hands start wondering. Mine, too, almost. But I'm aware of what is going to start happening in my pants if we don't calm down soon so I pull back, sitting up with him, breathing fast.

"Sorry," Carl smiles awkwardly. "I didn't mean to be, uh… too…" he fumbles with the right term, "_forward_?"

Maybe it's the completely innocent way Carl said it, or maybe it's the unbelievable amount of testosterone surging through our bodies right now, but we both laugh.

"I just don't think we should do that stuff. You know, not yet. I mean..."

He's still laughing.

"I mean..." I try. "You know..."

He kisses me, "I know."

After a slightly awkward moment, we go back to our scrabble game for a while, kissing some more as a reward for words that aren't imaginary, though, both of us making a little more effort to keep our hands to ourselves.

* * *

"That part."

"This part?"

"Yeah. Now squeeze, right there."

Carl does.

"_Ew_!" he grimaces.

I laugh, taking my hand back.

"_No way_ that was real," he challenges.

"Swear. Look, give me your hand, man. I'll prove it."

We're still playing scrabble, only, we'd gotten a little side tracked. I'd remembered a trick I learnt in Science class in school once, how you can make your fingers move by squeezing the right part of your forearm, and so I'd just made him do it to me, and given his reaction, it totally worked.

I gesture to his hand again, and he relents, frowning at me, and I gently grip his forearm, twisting his wrist so that his fingers face towards me.

"Relax your arm."

He frowns, but does as I ask, shifting his weight in his cross-legged position on the floor, the paused scrabble game to our side.

"'Kay, ready?"

He nods.

So, I gently squeeze his inner forearm, firmly pressing my thumb over the tendons that stretch down from his wrist, and involuntarily, all five of Carl's fingers flex, slowly curling into a loose fist.

"Shit."

I grin at his awe, letting out a chuckle as I release the pressure on his arm, though, Carl doesn't take it back, instead smiling and watching me, and so I take his hint, gently weaving my fingers into his hands. Then, Carl sort of starts to play with my extremity, pushing his thumb between each of my fingers, gently tugging at my nails with a goofy grin on his face, as if he's just crossed something off of his bucket list.

"Boys."

The moment of serenity splits in half, cracking right down the middle between us as we hear Rick open the bedroom door.

Carl and I weren't sat particularly intimately before, but even so, I almost stumble over myself as I shimmy away from him, Carl letting go of my hands and pushing himself over to the scrabble game, knocking the board and letters everywhere in the process.

I get up, just as Rick comes into view.

"Dad."

"Hey," Rick sighs, oblivious, looking up at us from his hands, suddenly stopping as he realises how awkward we must look, with me stood like a statue in the middle of the room and Carl rushing to scramble up the scrabble letters. "You two okay?"

"Yep."

I go to the desk, pretending to look interested as I scan through a few xbox games that I'd put back up there before, ignoring my reddening cheeks.

"Get ready for bed," Rick tells us, "don't wanna stay up too late tonight, need your rest."

"'Kay, Dad."

"Night, Carl."

"Night."

"Night, Oliver."

"Oh. N-night, sir."

He leaves again, and a moment later Carl lets out a sigh as we hear the man close his own bedroom door down the hall.

"Jesus."

I seem to jolt back into reality at Carl's whisper, trying to cool my cheeks down and sure you could fry an egg on them if you tried.

But it's late, and we _are_ tired. So I go and check the wardrobe and find a few clean pyjamas, throwing Carl a set.

"What?" he questions, looking at me like I'm crazy as I begin eagerly undressing myself.

"I don't care if it's the end of the world, I want to be comfortable," I defend myself, pulling on the pyjama bottoms and then taking off my top. I know that he is watching me, but I pretend not to notice, enjoying how easily I can distract him to be truthful, though, being quick because I'm still slight adrenaline pumped from Rick walking in a moment ago.

When I am done, I look at him and motion him to dress too, before rushing over to the bed and slumping into it, burying myself under the thick, warm covers. I can hear him dressing, but I make an effort not to look. Then, when he finishes, he climbs into the bed and I bring myself to turn and look at him, pulling the covers up for him to share. "Thanks," he smiles.

We lay like this for a while, and I let myself get tired. But I keep giggling, because every few moments Carl randomly buries his face into the duvet cover.

"Why're you doing that?"

"W-what? What am I doing?"

"You're kind of… _burrowing._"

Carl grins. "Sorry," he mumbles. "I jus' haven't slept in a bed in a while."

I furrow my brow. "What about your cot?" I ask.

Carl shakes his head. "That's not a real bed. Last real bed I slept in was over a year ago at Hershel's Farm," he trails off, suddenly reminded of the loss of his grandfather figure. I find his hand under the duvet and lean forward, kissing his forehead to comfort him.

"Then make the most of it."

Carl smiles and pulls a little more of the duvet around us, before burying his face into the fabric and letting out a long sigh, and I can see that he is exhausted. So I close my eyes, but moments later I feel Carl's hand twitch slightly, squeezing my fingers between his, and I open my eyes to see him looking at me. In the gloom, I only just make out his smile.

"I know that Ostentatiousness isn't a real word."

I laugh and then kiss him as a reply, and Carl kisses me back, squeezing my hand in his as he we lip lock. We pull away, and I enjoy Carl's soft breathing on my skin for a moment, before he leans forward and gently kisses the end of my nose.

I chuckle at him.

"Night, Man" I whisper, stroking the back of his hand with my thumb.

"Night," he says, before doing that funny burrowing thing again, only this time it's into my chest. _Cute._ And with that thought, I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.

* * *

**Notes**

Don't forget to review, follow and favourite x thanks! Love ya'll!

Happy reading xx :_)_


	18. Claimed, Part 1: Impulse Control

**westerlo4** Thank you x

**Prettyprincess45** thank you! That means sooo much!

* * *

Re-edited: 17/10/2015

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

There isn't a more restless sleeper than Carl. I'm sure of it. Last night, we fell asleep with me against the wall and Carl in front of me, facing each other. We're still facing each other now, only, as I open my eyes and see him, asleep, I come to realise that somehow, during the night, we've switched places. I don't know when or how. If he maybe just went to the bathroom (which essentially is either just the window or a bush in the backyard) and came back to find me in his original place. I think I vaguely remember him just rolling over on top me. I guess it just went from there, really, unconsciously and clumsily and lazily and gracelessly.

It takes me a moment to realise I'm grinning, thinking, _Carl Grimes, __now,_ _aka.__ my boyfriend. _I realise that the term's fairly pointless, especially nower days, but I'm still kind of completely ecstatic about it –about _him._ Under my palm (because at some point I'd decided to lift it) his skin is dirty and sweaty. His hair, too, coated and gritty and stiff, and I stroke it away from his closed eyes, and then my fingers are running down his cheek and jaw, gently and carefully and softly, and for no reason, really, just because I can.

Then I feel it.  
_Oh, fuck!  
_My eyes widen.

It seems Carl's a little more sensitive than I was under the impression of. To put it rather bluntly. He's hard. Digging against my leg, and I'm holding my breath, aware of my burning cheeks, aware that he'd be mortified if he woke up right now. _**Well, it's a good thing that you're mature enough to take it easy on him when he does wake up. **__Yeah… __**I mean, you are going to cut him some slack, right? It's not exactly his fault. **__Uh huh… __**Oliver? **__What? __**Oliver, don't you dare take the piss out of him! You won't will you? **__Uh… __**You won't, right? Right?! **__Okay! Okay, I won't._

I carefully shimmy away from him so that if he were to wake at least he won't actually be in contact with me, and thankfully for him, he stays asleep. If he stays asleep for long enough it'll just go away and I can pretend it never happened. For his sake. But, of course, a few minutes later, Carl begins to stir, almost as if he can sense my silent hysteria, because I keep... _looking _at it. Peering under the comforter like an awed fanboy who's just won tickets to ComiCon. He almost catches me, opening his eyes and rubbing the sleep from them. But I clamp the comforter down between us, and his eyes adjust to the morning, glancing at me, smiling. I make a concerted effort _not_ to look at the lump in the blankets when he rolls over onto his back.

"Mornin'," he mumbles in his groggy morning voice, oblivious. I'm chewing my lip._ Should I tell him? __**Well, would you want him to tell you?**__ Uh, yeah. I think so. _Carl notices my nervous expression and burning cheeks, and his eyebrows furrow. "Y'okay?"

"Uh..." I can't think of how to put this.

Carl looks puzzled. "What is it?"

I glance down, brief but obvious, but he doesn't take the hint. My logic never ceases to amaze me sometimes, because in the moment of puzzling over how to explain without ridiculing him for it, apparently, my first and most rational explanation to all of this is to kiss him. But then I realise this probably wasn't the most practical thing to do to him right now, and I don't help as my hand slips across his chest, under his arm, tugging at his side. _**Olive**__**r, r**__**emember what you were doing. **__Oh. Uh, Right._

I pull away. "Carl."

"Yeah?"

"Uh, y. . . you're – You've. Um."

But that is all I have to say.

He sits bolt upright, so fast that, me; fairly wrapped in the comforter, almost flings up with him until he remembers to let go of it, too, because Carl finally notices. His cheeks almost shine crimson, pulling his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them tightly. He cringes. . .

"I am _so_ sorry."

I know I promised myself that I wouldn't joke about this, and I try not to. I really try. But a smirk manages to break across my lips, and a snide, "I'm flattered," forces its way out of my mouth.

_**Dammit, Oliver! You have zero impulse control and it is disgusting!**_

"No," Carl glares at me. "N-no it's not… Oh. Shut up! Don't take it so damned personally. They jus'. . . happen, all the time."

"Sorry," I apologise. But obviously, it doesn't comfort or console him. "Carl. It's whatever. No biggie."

_Well, actually...  
__**Oliver, focus.**_

I dip my head, catching his eyes again, as they've now dropped to the floor, and he finally he looks back to me, still cringing. "Carl. It's no fuss. I get them all the time, too. It's just what comes with being a guy."

At the same time Carl and I realise the accidental innuendo I just used and we both start laughing, and when we finally settle, Carl still looks mortified.

"Look," I say, "I'll tell you the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me if it'll make you feel better?"

"Probably won't," he says pessimistically, wrapping his arms tighter around himself.

I suppress my grin, rolling my eyes instead. "When I was in sixth grade," I begin. "We put on a play at school. It was _Romeo and Juliet._ I was supposed to just be an Extra, but the kid who played Romeo got sick and I was his undercover. Penelope was Juliet."

Carl nods, remembering her mention. "Wait," he says. "You had your first kiss in a school play?"

"No," I say. "Well, almost... but, no. This is what happened. I was ready for the scenes and everything, because in rehearsal the kissing scenes were just hugging or kisses on the cheek. But Penelope, she told me that she was going to kiss me on the lips, _'__production value'_ she kept saying. God, I was so scared. And I told her I didn't think I could do it. But she said that it was okay because we were best friends so it'd be easy. So anyway, we were doing the play, and I was getting more and more terrified as it got closer to the kissing scene. I said my lines, played the part, right up until I was about to kiss her. But then? I yacked. _E__verywhere_... Literally everywhere. The stage, over my costume. On Penelope. It was so awful."

"What did Penelope do?" he asks, laughing and grimacing.

"Nothing," I shrug. "She didn't get mad, or scream at me, or throw a tantrum like I thought she would. She just hugged me and took me to the nurse's office. And when everyone else laughed and made fun of me she stuck up for me and told them all to grow up."

Carl smiles. "She sounded like a great friend."

"She was," I nod. "But I was still devastated. She stayed with me in the nurse's office. And when we'd gotten cleaned up and everything she came back to my house for a sleep over. Mom, Dad and Patrick were all still trying to stop laughing at me on the drive home. But Penelope held my hand, didn't laugh. That night was our first kiss. We were in my room watching Shrek. Pat'd just left to go to bed. Penelope just turned to me and pulled me to sit up and look at her. She told me I was _'really brave'_ after what happened and that I deserved a _'congratulatory endowment'_." Penelope had this thing about unnecessarily large words. "She asked, and I agreed, and then she just kissed me."

"Shrek?"

I nod, grinning.

"How romantic."

"I said–it just kinda happened," I laugh. But I stop when I see how hard he's still trying to hide himself, so I grab the pillow and hand it over. "I won't laugh either. Promise."

* * *

I kind of just sit with him for a while, holding his hand because holding his hand seems like a nice thing to do. Occasionally, I'll almost smirk, and Carl'll smirk, too, all frustrated and embarrassed and annoyed about it. But I keep my promise.

"Do you want me to just leave for a while?"

Carl grimaces. "What? No."

"Because, it's no trouble." I'm already climbing off the bed, letting go of his hand. "I'll just wait for you downstairs."

"N-no, Oliver. I'm not gonna–"

"Seriously," I go on, mocking him only a little. "We don't even have to talk about it. It's whatever." Even at his laughter and protest, I'm wondering around the room and collecting my clothes, dressing. Carl does go quiet then, and I know he's watching me, and the way I figure it, if he's going to have to stay up here for a little while until he calms down anyway, seeing me half naked won't make much difference, and plus, I don't hear him complaining. "See you, man," I smile at him as I leave out of the bedroom and head downstairs. "Have fun."

I hear his sigh of contempt, his irritably mumbled, "I'm not gonna jerk off," as I close the door, and I'm grinning like an idiot, shaking my head as I head downstairs.

Rick's in the living room, reading, and I am relieved to notice that his bruising is improving, still awful, but better than yesterday.. "Mornin', Oliver."

"Morning, Mr. Grimes. How'd you sleep?"

"Good," Rick nods. Pause. "I could hear you both laughing until pretty late."

I almost trip over my feet, but manage to catch myself with quite a painful clash against the coffee table, and I stare at him, unable to tell if he is mad or just saying it as fact. "S-sorry."

Rick smiles and shakes his head. "It's fine," he chuckles, wheezing slightly, but I pretend not to notice. "It was good to hear you both laughing again. Almost forgot what it sounded like."

I think the last time Rick saw either of us laugh was yesterday when Michonne arrived, but we were also crying, so I don't think that counts.

"Me, too."

I can't decide whether to leave or if he wants to keep talking. He looks confused, or rather, curious, and then he opens his mouth to talk. _'Are you and Carl together?'_ I'm terrified he'll ask, or _'Are you in love with my son?'_ or maybe just, _'How did you sleep?' _But he's cut short anyway.

"Oliver?!"

Michonne. She calls from the hallway.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, fine," she assures me when I stop outside the closed utility room door. "Hey, uh, could you do me a favour?"

"What do you need?"

"I forgot to bring a spare shirt in here. Can you go grab me one from somewhere?"

I almost laugh, but I hold my tongue. "Uh. Anything in particular?"

"Jus' something comfortable. Thank you."

So with that, I begin my search.

I'd found one in the room she'd slept in. It's white and it looks comfortable, so, keeping quite –mostly for Carl's sake regardless of what he might or might not be doing in the bedroom, I head back downstairs. He still hears me, and I laugh when I hear him grumble, "I'm still not jerking off," at me, and I call back, "Why not?!" and when Rick gives me an odd-amused-confused look for it when I walk past the living room I just say, "You're son's awesome," nonchalantly, and he laughs.

"Here, Michonne." I pass the shirt through, and then I head into the kitchen, and it's as I'm crouching to get a bowl that I hear Carl walking down the staircase. Something thumping as he does.

"Morning."

"Carl," Rick says. It's funny how it always sounds like _Coral. _"Sleep okay?"

Carl must nod. That thumping thing happens again, three times in a row. "You look better."

"Thanks. I feel it."

Carl is relieved. Really, he is. He just isn't going to say it aloud. So, again, he must just nod, because then I'm watching him walk into the kitchen to join me, wearing his clothes from yesterday again, and quite obviously calmed down from his previous state, and I realise that the thumping noise has actually been a tennis ball he'd found. He tosses it against the kitchen floor, catches it again, then throws it to me. I barely catch it in time. "Good strategy. Playing catch instead of, you know..."

He rolls his eyes, catching it when I throw it back, rolling it in his hands and looking at me through his hair. "Less messy," he whispers.

I snicker into my hand, nodding sarcastically. "Noted, man."

His cheeks shine, but he brushes it off and helps me make breakfast. Breakfast is essentially just some cheerios in a bowl. But we take our time. Standing right beside each other as we collect the bowls and cereal and spoons, suppressing smiles, touching hips and shoulders and fingers, until we take our things and go sit at the table. We both struggle to pace ourselves over the meal. To me, the sweetness is addictive, like with the pudding and the grapes. I guess the apocalypse isn't exactly the best environment to learn table manners.

It takes until I see the small scab on his finger before I finally slow down, pointing. "How is it?"

"Oh, yeah," he says, raising his hand and examines the cut. I'm smiling, remembering how I _cleaned_ it yesterday, remembering that bitter irony taste on my tongue. I wasn't expecting his reaction. I don't think he was either. Actually, I don't think he was expecting any of it at all. "Forgot about it."

I only did it because Penelope once did the same thing to me. I'd cut my palm making salad for her family on Independence Day. I was slicing a cucumber, and the end of the blade got me. But it didn't feel like when I did it to Carl. There was no racing heartbeats or blowing pupils or breathlessness or any of that. It was just an innocent gesture between friends.

Carl begins to scratch it.

"Don't pick it. You'll make it bleed again."

Carl smirks, and I kind of get the feeling that he isn't too fussed about that, as long as it means that I'll _clean_ it again.

"Licking and sucking," I whisper, chuckling, absent-mindedly bobbing his hand in mine. "Found your fetish."

Carl's cheeks turn that brilliant dark crimson colour again, whispering back, "As long as we've still got a few books for you."

I scoff, "I don't have a damn book fetish, man."

Carl takes his hand back, laughing into it, but I spot the large bruise on the outside of his forearm and wrist, poking out of his sleeve.

"How'd this happen?" I ask, carefully pulling his sleeve down.

Confused, he pulls his arm around to see. "Oh… Must've been when I was, uh, hitting the wall." He trails. "When we got here."

"Your dad wasn't too happy about that, huh?"

Carl sighs, looking away, lips pressing uncomfortably. "I jus'… get _so_ angry at him sometimes. You know?"

I nod, admittedly, slightly dismissive. I'm more focused on how sore and blue the bruise looks, running my thumb over it. But I notice the dark cloud looming over him, and I tilt my head, concerned. "What?"

"I jus' get… _so… _angry, Oliver. At everything. I get so mad I think I'll–" He stops, glaring down at his hands. "I don't know. I just hate how mad I get. And I know I'm not supposed to be angry, but I always am." His brow arches, and he looks right at me. He looks so sad. "Does that make me a bad person?"

I stare at him, my head shaking. "You're not a bad person, Carl," I say truthfully, frowning. "Your just you. Look we've all done bad things... We have. But we're still people. _I__'m _still me. Your dad's still your dad. Michonne's still Michonne. And you're still you, Carl."

Maybe he'd say, _"You're right,"_ or, _"Thank you,"_ or, _"That means a lot to me,"_ or maybe even, _"You're so full of shit, Oliver." _But Carl's never been one for verbal responses. So, instead, he tips forward, and in the same moment I decide that I definitely like this reply better than a verbal one anyway. But that's when Michonne walks into the kitchen, and she peers past the door, and just in time Carl and I shimmy apart, looking around to her.

"You got the cereal?" she asks us, and we nod, and so Michonne comes in with a bowl and spoon, wearing the shirt I got her.

It takes me aback that Carl starts laughing, and I can't decide if I'm more amazed that she'd worn the shirt or more amazed that Carl'd been able to fake his good mood so quickly. So, granted, it takes me a few moments longer, but eventually I smile, too, more at him than at her. Though, her new clothing _is_ far too big for her, bagging off of her shoulders and torso, kind of reminding me of how Mom used to wear Dad's T-shirts.

Michonne narrows her eyes at him. "Do you have something to say about my extremely comfortable and attractive shirt?"

He laughs more, watching her fold her sleeves and tie a knot at the back to tighten it. "N-no, no, no," he replies, and I work hard to keep my lips and face still, feeling more guilty that it was me that found it for her, "uh, it looks great."

Michonne grins at me then. "I love it."

I chuckle then. "Thanks. I, uh, put your other shirt in the living room to dry."

"Thank you," she says.

"Oh, uh. You missed a-" Carl points to an accidentally skipped button, and I catch a glimpse of the brown skin on her abdomen, and she smiles gratefully, doing it up and taking the seat next to me.

I grin at them both, and we continue our meal. Eventually, Michonne stops eating and prods at the cereal. "Wish we had some soy milk," she mutters disappointedly.

"Seriously?"

I look at him, my brow flying to my hairline, and Michonne cocks an eyebrow. "Yes, _seriously_!" she argues. "Have you ever tried it?"

"M-my best friend in third grade," Carl starts. "He was allergic to dairy."

"Uh-huh," Michonne encourages.

I have to admit, this is nice, so nice in fact that I rest my head on the table surface and watch him tell his story.

"And every day he'd bring this soy stuff to lunch," Carl says, "I tried it."

Michonne grins. "_And_?"

"I threw up!"

I laugh, "Bullsh–"

But Michonne covers my mouth, and I laugh into her palm, "Oh!" she groans, exasperated. "Yeah right!"

"Alright, alright. I almost threw up, but I was like..." He pretends to gag and retch, earning a laugh from both Michonne and I. So he stops his re-enactment, grinning until we compose ourselves again, and even when we do, he keeps going: "You guys're so _gross._ I mean, literally, I would rather have powdered milk than to have that stuff again. I would rather have Judith's formu-"

There it is.  
The crack in his front.  
It splits right in two, exposing the sad little boy hiding behind.

So it all rushes back, to all three of us. It's funny that, how you start to forget about the bad stuff –block it out, rather. For a moment there, I was on autopilot, neither thinking that Judith was alive or dead. I just forgot. Not now though. Now it all comes back to me, to all of us, smacking us across the face worse than I'd ever expected it to. Because Judith is dead. Torn apart by teeth and claws and bullets. Gone. Like all of them. Forced to the earth under tank tracks and dead corpses and empty shot gun shells.

I almost startle at the loud scrape Carl's chair makes as he pushes it out from under him, standing. "I'm gonna go read my book," he mutters. "Only got a few chapters left."

Then he's gone, hurrying from the dining room up into our bedroom. Michonne and I sit in silence. I pick at a cheerio, and when Carl comes back down with his book, hurrying down the hallway out onto the porch, I stare into my bowl, bunching up my shoulders when the front door closes.

Then Michonne is nudging my sleeve, and I look up to her. "If you won't then I will," she says, and I know she means going out there and talking to him. "I, personally, think he'd appreciate it more if it came from you."

"If what came from me?" I ask quietly, lost on how I can possibly console him.

She shrugs, shakes her head, smiles. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

So I go.

He's sat on the porch swing. Like the one in the house yesterday. I think most houses around here have one. He's on the edge furthest away from the house, staring out over the dead suburb, watching the Georgian morning start to heat up the road and the air. His eyes flicking up to the sky, following a few clouds there, then to the trees, watching the slow, soft, warm breeze.

After a moment he starts tossing the tennis ball up, catching it, again and again.

I wait for him to tell me to go, leave him alone for a while. But he stays silent, throwing and catching, and so, carefully, I sit beside him on the centre of the swing, a few inches between us, aware that Rick can probably see our faces from here, if he's still in the living room that is. Carl moves over anyway, stopping throwing, taking my hand under the cover that the wall gives us instead, pushing his fingers between mine. He doesn't say anything, and for a long time neither do I. I can see how miserable he feels. Damn, I feel it, too. In a matter of one week we've both lost our brother and sister. So no, words aren't necessary right now. Now we just need to hold each other's hand for a little longer until the hurt becomes bearable again.

"Oliver?" he whispers quietly, finally, looking ahead. "I'm. . . I'm gonna tell him. My dad. About us."

I snap my head around at him, feeling the hairs on my neck suddenly stand on end.

"I jus'," Carl pauses as he thinks. "I jus' don't wanna lie to him, or to me. And I don't wanna _hide,_ anymore. . . That alright?"

I'm nodding, nodding and nodding and nodding, looking ahead again, my heart pounding. "W-when?"

"I don't know." Carl shrugs. "But, I will. I don't know how he'll react, but I will tell him." Sweetly determined, that's what he is right now, although, I can tell he's nervous. I would be, too. Actually, I'm terrified. I mean, he'll probably blame me, but I'm more scared for Carl. If Rick can't accept us then he'll be rejecting his own son, his own blood. _**But that won't happen. Rick could never do that to Carl.**__ I know._

"It'll be fine," I continue aloud. "You're Dad's a good man. And after everything that we've all been through it's impossible that he wouldn't accept you. He loves you more than anything. This..." I motion to the both of us. "_Us,_ can't change that."

Carl looks relieved, also kind of flattered I notice, but I know that his relentless ego won't allow him to show it, so instead he lets out a chuckle and places his hand over my face, playfully pushing me away. "You big sap," he jokes, but I hear the hitch in his breath, see the welling in his eyes.

I pull my face away, smiling softly, watching him. The he's leaning forward, and I freeze, eyes widening. "Your d..."

"I don't care," he whispers, his hand coming up to my neck, grazing our lips. We're not actually kissing, properly. I don't know what this is. It's more like imitating butterfly wings fluttering against each other or something – our lips barely touching. But it's playful, and I think I'm teasing him, or he's teasing me, I can't tell, but I know that I like it. I know that soon any other anxiety I'd been worried about is flung from my mind, because in spite of myself, rendered unable to wait any longer as his lips skim and brush mine again, I'm kissing him, wrapping my arms around him, and he's kissing me back.

That settles it, I'm dependant on Carl's lips. Addicted.

Then he's pulled away, and I almost fall off of the damned seat, breathing fast and heavy, and Carl smiles at me. "C'mon," he says, holding out his hand, and I take it, aware that mine are trembling, aware that my whole body feels like I'm trying to boil right out of myself.

I'm not sure what I expected while we walked back inside the house together. It turns out that Rick actually wasn't in the living room, which came as more of a relief to me than I admitted, and it only occurs to me now that Carl might be planning on breaking the news right now when he makes for the kitchen. But he hears them inside, Rick and Michonne, talking amongst themselves together, and he stops, pausing and listening, and I only catch snippets of words of gratitude from Rick before Carl had grabbed my hand and is pulling me to the staircase.

He leaves the tennis ball on the staircase, and when we get into our bedroom, for a while we just sit in silence on the bed. It's a little awkward, really. So, unlike usual, today is the rare occasion that it's me who breaks it. . .

"Tell me more about your third grade best friend?"

Carl frowns, confused, but then he softens his expression. "His name was Tyler. He had, the reddest hair I'd ever seen, and freckles that you could play dot to dot with."

I give him a playfully scolding, _'that's not a very nice thing to say,'_ look.

"Mm," Carl says, brow raising, "everyone bullied him for it. But not me. I used to stick up for him, told'm to bug off, and they'd pick on me for it, too, but, I didn't care."

I smile. "Like Penelope."

Carl nods. "Tyler used to say, _'bite me, worms.'_ But... I suppose they kinda did in the end."

"That's not funny."

"I know," Carl mutters. "Doesn't it – Don't you – I jus'... I feel so wrong. Smiling when everyone's gone – when they're all dead."

There's a long pause, and I'm aware of the tension in it. It's heavy and serrated and raw, ready to burst.

"I'd still want you to smile."

Carl frowns at me. "What?"

"If I died," I say, taking his hand. "I'd still want you to smile. I'd still wanna know that you'd be okay."

His eyebrows arch, and suddenly, a tear spills from his left eye, so he wipes it, quickly, then the other, frowning again. "You're not gonna die, Oliver," he kind of grumbles, but his voice hitches.

I rest me head on his shoulder, pressing it there and closing my eyes, whispering, "I'd still want you to smile."

His chin rests atop my head, and he pauses for a long time, murmuring his words. "Where's your beanie?"

I sit up, looking around the room. "I dunno," I murmur. "I left it in here somewhere. Think I was wearing it when I fell asleep."

"Yeah, I think you were."

I climb off of the bed to search.

"It's here," he announces, grabbing it, so I kneel on the bed to take it, only, Carl doesn't let go of it, holding it to his chest, refusing to hand it over, so I lean closer.

"Give it, man."

Of course he doesn't. Instead though, he bites his lip, almost nervously, and then leans forward to meet my lips, and well, who am I to say no? So we kiss again, and he's wrapping his arms around my neck and pulling me down to him.

_**Oliver... cool it. If you keep on like this, it wont just be Carl **__**that'll**__** ha**__**ve**__** to stay **__**in**__** here to calm down **__**today**__**. **__What if we want to stay up here though? __**Wait, really? I... I mean, no. Stop now before you both aren't able to. **__What if we already aren't able to? __**What? **_I don't answer myself, because I soon become aware that I'm leaning over him now. Any inner conversation is difficult to keep up when you're in a situation like this.

Carl palms my back, one hand on each side of my rib cage, pawing at my shirt, pulling me closer, and then I'm against him, and his knees are drawn up around me, his quickening breathing, his heart pounding, _kissing kissing kissing._

He makes a noise when he pulls away, like it was supposed to be a sentence but didn't quite make it as one, and even with the second chance to articulate it he chooses not to say anything, so I stare at him, trying to catch my breath, trying to search for an answer to what it is he wants so badly from me. What it is I want so badly from him.

_**Impulse control, Oliver. Impulse control.**_

I compose my thoughts, which proves almost impossible when I realise we're kissing again. His hands wandering, but I manage, reluctantly breaking our kiss, exchanging our hurried and irregular breaths, staring. I swear, those infinitely beautiful eyes have the power to melt everything inside of me. It's madness, and the words form in my throat, about to tell him to calm down a little, that we shouldn't get too carried away too quickly. But then Carl has rolled over, and my mind is spinning, my eyes clamping shut as he runs his hands up my abdomen, planting short, neat kisses on my jawline, drowning away any words that were forming, gasping in an attempt not to make a sound, loosing myself, clinging onto my rationality as it hangs out of the window, begging me to let go of it.

_**Impulse control. Yes, impulse control, Oliver. Use it.**_

It's Carl who pulls away, staring at me, looking almost proud of himself. I stare back at him, panting, swallowing, swearing that Carl'll be the death of me._** Then ask him to stop. **__But... I don't want him to stop. _Those damn butterflies are back, fighting with each other inside of my stomach, nerves getting the better of me, overwhelmed by the silent confliction reeling in my mind.

"Carl..."

I don't know what I want to say to him.

"Oliver," Carl mutters, his eyes just two glowing black holes, his voice harbouring a kind of tentativeness that closes my mouth without even needing to touch it. ". . . I meant it."

I stare at him, confused. "W-what?" I whisper breathlessly, although again, it is not from my asthma. Carl only stares at me, his eyes darting between both of mine, but it's as though I can read his thoughts, because my memory retraces something from all those days ago in the Office Blocks when I was falling asleep and I heard Carl mutter something to me. I couldn't make it out at the time, but I remember what he said now. _"I meant it."_ Him saying it now bringing it all back to me. But meant what? What did he mean? My mind reels for the answer, and then my eyes widen as I figure it out.

_Oh._

I suddenly recollect our conversation earlier that night, _"you know? Worrying about me isn't gonna make me love you anymore than I already do,"_ he said after I'd said the same thing to him.

_Wait, so, did he just tell me he loves me? __**Uh... I think so. **_But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe that's just what I want to believe. I'm over thinking it. I know I am. Carl seems to notice the doubt in my expression, because he kisses me, pulling.

"I meant it, Oliver," he whispers against my lips. "I do."

I know it's lame, or ridiculous, or whatever, but I can't help but stare at him in shock, or the welling in my eyes. Overwhelmed. Something so powerful and confusing threatening to spill from my whole body. So I pull him into an embrace, wrapping my arms around him, and he holds me, too, burying his face into my neck before pulling away, staring. I wonder for a moment if Carl will actually say it to me, but I don't expect him to. Like I've mentioned, Carl has never been one for vocal responses... _**Wait... then, what will his physical response be after that?!**_

I soon find out, because we're kissing again, and he's doing things with his mouth that make me gasp and twitch and scrunch my eyes shut. But soon he begins to move down, making a trail of kisses down my neck, goosebumps forming, feeling the ends of his fringe graze over my collarbones, and then not feeling them anymore when they move over my top. Moving down. . . until he pulls up the hem of my top to my chest, kissing my stomach, my hip, and I can feel his shaky, hurried breathing on my skin, but despite his nerves, he's more determined than I've ever seen him before.

Then his fingers crawl into the hem of my jeans, and I snap my eyes open, scrambling to grab his hands. "Wait, w-what're you doing?"

He's panting, shaking his head. "I-I don't know. I... I really don't know."

"Carl," I say, trying to catch my breath and gulping, fighting my almost overpowering urges. "I don't think you wanna do this. N-not now."

Carl stares at me, breathing heavily, frowning. "Y-yeah, I do," he says.

A pause.

"Don't you?"

I stare at him, swallowing hard. "I do. I really do want to."

"Good," he whispers, and slips his hands from mine, and he tries to kiss me again, and I almost let him, but I force myself to stop, shaking my head.

"Carl. We can't."

Carl's expression arches, hurt, and embarrassment turns his cheeks crimson, sitting up and averting his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispers, reminding me of our first kiss in the courtyard, in our old home. "God, I'm sorry."

I sigh, hating myself, wondering why the hell I'm talking when he's so willingly about to do this to me. But I know it's best for him. He hasn't said it, but I know the only reason he's doing this is because of how vulnerable and miserable losing his sister and home has made him.

"Carl. I don't want you to do this because you're sad," I explain, "or, because you think you owe me. Or you want to prove how much you care. I already know, man. But, we're not ready. We just lost our home, our family. And I'm so sorry for that, but, I don't think having sex with me's gonna make you feel better."

He fights it as best he can, but his sadness gets the better of him, and a tear spills from his eye, and immediately I envelope my arms around him, and his whole body begins to hiccup and shake.

"I-I miss them s-so much. I m-miss her s-s-so much, Oliver."

Carl presses his forehead to mine, his eyes scrunched. But this isn't a romantic, or even a sexual anymore, it's just a desperate need to make each other stop hurting, to cure each other the only way we know how to.

* * *

"Oliver?"

I don't know how long later it is. I just know that I'd been falling asleep against his chest listening to his heartbeat. "Yeah."

"What happened?" he asks into my beanie. "When you, Michonne and Hershel were kidnapped?"

I sit up. Carl, too, and we face each other with our legs crossed. I swallow. "We were burning the bodies. And he was there... watching us. We were going back to the truck. I didn't see him, I just heard Michonne fall. I looked, but before I could think. He was there. He was everywhere." I pause, rubbing my temple. "After he hit me with his gun I woke up in the camper van. He. . ." I stop.

"What is it?" he whispers, and I look at him, about to shake my head and tell him it's nothing, but I can't lie to him, so I watch him. Until he touches my knee. "Please?"

"The Governor," his name feels repulsive on my tongue and I resist the urge to grimace. "He saw us."

"W-what?" he asks.

I purse my lips, feeling my shoulders hunch. "When I was in the camper van with Hershel and Michonne, he had to clean the wound he gave me. He said that he didn't mean to hit me so bad and that he was only trying to help me, but he did it too rough. I got mad, made some comment. And he... He looked at me, real close, and it scared me, but... He was there," I say, staring hopelessly at the distraught teenager. "Carl, he saw us."

I watch him recoil, loosing himself in his intrusive thoughts, and I stare at him, terrified. I'd think he's gone catatonic if I didn't know any better.

"Carl?"

He looks furious, and he glares at me, no, _through _me, teeth clenched, grinding, and I almost flinch at the awful noise, staring at him wide eyed, suddenly worried that he'll scream at me. I swallow.

"Carl?" I whisper again, letting go of his hand, half readying myself to dodge a throw from his fist. But he wont hit me. He wouldn't. Though, he still doesn't respond, only glares, and it's terrifying. _This is the angry __he__ was telling me about, isn't it? __**I think so...**_

"Carl," I wince when my temple throbs from the stress. "Please?"

**Carl's POV**

I'm holding my middle, hiding my shaking hands, forcing myself not to scream. I hate The Governor. Despise him. He ruined everything. I should've shot him when I had the chance. I wish I'd pulled the trigger and watched his skull explode. I'd have enjoyed it. I would've smiled when he slumped to the ground, when the evil that once harboured his repulsive body disappeared and deleted itself from existence. I could've saved everyone. I could've saved my sister. With one _fucking_ bullet it could've all been over.

"I hate him."

That's all I growl, glaring at the wall. My anger's awful at the best of times. But this? It's never been this bad. The thoughts are awful. I don't know how much longer I can take it before I explode, before I scream at someone, before I kill someone.

"Me, too, man."

Oliver tries to keep his face relaxed, but he winces and has to look away to hold his head. I purse my lips, guilty and aching. "Hurtin' again?"

Oliver nods, wincing.

"Sorry," I mumble, because I know that he only hurts because he had to yell.

He tries to shake his head, but it's so painful that he has to lie down.

"I'll get your pills."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

My headache's almost completely gone again. I'm just relieved the infection healing. I can hear the others talking downstairs, catching muffled words like _'run'_ and _'not well enough'_ and _'we'll be fine.'_ I guess that we're going for another run, and again Rick isn't able to come with us again. Carl comes back a few minutes later, carrying his empty gun in it's holster on his leg. I sit up, moving off of the bed.

"N-no. Oliver you're not comin' today."

I scoff and roll my eyes. "Sure I am. I'm fine now," I insist, expecting him to throw me my shoes. But he doesn't, just stares at me. "I'm coming, too. I can go with you both. I can help."

"I know you can," he nods. "So does Michonne and Dad. But, you still can't come. We all think it's best you stay here for a little while longer. Your infection's not exactly gonna get better out there."

I can't help the childish disappointment on my face, but I relax it almost immediately, sitting back on the bed and making an effort not to wince despite the shooting pain that conveniently decides to return to my temple. "Can I at least go downstairs when you go?" I ask when it subsides. "Say goodbye to you both?"

"Duh," he nods.

"Good," I say, "when are you leaving?"

"Now," he says.

"Oh, okay,"

I want to stand up again, but I know that it'll hurt if I do it too quickly. But Carl seems to pick up on this because he walks over to me, lugging the empty supply bag over his shoulder and gently taking under my arm, pulling.

"Thanks," I say, a little embarrassed, but appreciative all the same, letting him steady me until my brain doesn't feel like it's banging around inside of my skull so bad.

"Oh, should probably cover that up."

I'm confused, but he raises his hand and stokes some of my hair to cover under my ear, and I realise what he's managed to leave me, scoffing at him. "Thanks for that. Genius," I joke sarcastically, putting on my beanie to better cover the bruise.

We walk downstairs, Carl kindly staying under my arm the whole way. "You good, Oliver?" Michonne asks me from the hallway, poking her head through the door to look at me.

I nod, ignoring the pounding in my head and about to stand on my own, but Carl doesn't let go. "No, it's okay," he whispers, and I look at him, and he gives me a smile, so I relax, letting him walk me to the back door. When we get there, Michonne and Rick are stood waiting for us, Rick's hand on the door handle, watching, but I can't tell if it's in weariness for my injuries or curiosity for our behaviour.

Carl steadies us, careful to make sure I'm good on my own before letting go, and even when I'm stood he keeps his hand on my back for a moment.

"You got it?"

"Yeah," I nod, unintentionally smiling a little.

He drops his hand and looks to his father and Michonne. "Ready?" he asks casually.

"Yeah," Michonne answers.

Rick nods, glancing briefly at me, then to Carl, before motioning us to head out. "How long do you think you'll be?" he asks when we're all on the back porch.

"Fill a couple bags," Michonne says. "Shouldn't be too long."

Rick pulls out his broken watch head and looks at it. "It's eight-fifteen now."

I recognise it, the watch. Remembering Carol carrying it around on herself, and I can't help but frown, snapping my eyes up to him as he pockets it again. But I understand that now isn't the time to ask.

"We'll be back before noon," Michonne promises.

Rick nods, visibly reassured, and he turns to Carl. "You follow her lead," he tells him, pulling out his gun from its holster and presenting it. "D'you understand?"

Carl hesitates, and I know that he's feeling guilty for stealing the same gun yesterday. But he composes himself, taking it with a sigh, nodding.

"Hey," Rick says, and Carl glances up, stuffing the gun into the back of his jeans. "Everythin' okay?"

Carl sighs again, glances at me. "Yeah…" he says quietly, looking back to Rick. "Jus', hungry."

I know that he isn't telling the whole truth. Of course he is hungry, but we all are. But he has a lot going through his mind right now. It's a lot for a fourteen year old to take on in the middle of the apocalypse. But, however cheesy this may sound, I am_ so_ proud of him.

"All right," Rick says, patting Carl on the shoulder.

Carl glances at me, pursing his lips and holding my eye contact for a long moment. I can almost hear him telling me to get some rest while he's gone, and I nod, silently telling him to stay safe, and Carl nods, as if he heard.

I love that.  
I love _him._

They leave, and I'm watching him; supply bag on his shoulder and his father's gun sticking awkwardly out of the back of his jeans, causing the hem of his shirt to ruffle and stick out, and I'm tilting my head, subtly enjoying the view of his butt that the misplaced clothing is offering. But I suddenly notice Rick watching me out of the corner of my eye and I look at him, drawing in a sharp breath, aware how quickly my cheeks heat up.

Rick cocks an eyebrow, and my heart pounds. _Why is he looking at me like that? __**He thinks you have a crush on his son, Oliver... **__But, I do. __**No, I mean, Rick thinks that you were just checking Carl out...**__ I was... __I mean, he's my boyfriend. __**Yeah, but Rick doesn't know that yet, let alone that his son likes you, too.**_

Self conscious, I pull my beanie, making sure that it's still covering the mark his son gave me. "Have you eaten?" I ask, forcing the subject to make sure Rick doesn't ask the questions I can see on the tip of his tongue. I can't answer them, not yet. Not until Carl talks to him.

"Yeah," Rick replies, walking back into the utility room, and I follow, "uh, I was gonna rest for a while. Get back to readin', take a look at my wounds." I lock the door behind us while Rick goes into the living room. "How're you healin'?"

I'd been heading up the staircase, so I crouch to look at him through the banister, nodding, careful not to make my head hurt again. "I'm okay. A little sore sometimes, but getting better, sir."

"You know? You can jus' call me Rick, Oliver," he says, raising his arm incredulously. "I thought it'd, you know... wear off. I thought you'd end up forgetting one day like everyone else. I thought Patrick would, too." I glance at the floor, feeling a lump in my throat. "I'm sorry," Rick says sympathetically. "I didn't think."

"It's okay," I say. "We've all lost people."

"Yes, we have," Rick agrees solemnly, he walks over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder through the railing. "You're a good kid, Oliver. And so was he. Brought up well with a smart head on your shoulders. I'm glad you joined us. You're both my family."

All I can do is stare at him, overwhelmed, thinking of everything Rick's done fore me since I met him, since before I met him–keeping Pat safe, giving us a safe place, a sanctuary. Giving me somewhere to belong, somewhere to call home again.

I pull myself together, nodding, and he pats my shoulder. "I wanted to thank you. He's himself around you – Carl," he says, but I must give him a sceptical look because he insists. "No, I've seen it. He's comfortable with you. He's not even like that with Michonne. But he needs that. And, I think you need that, too. I told Michonne earlier; I can't be his father and his best friend. He needs you, both o' you. And I can see that you need them, too. It means a lot to me that you've been so good to us, to my boy."

I can feel my eyes begin to well, so I look away and clear my throat a little. "Thank you, Rick," and he pats my shoulder again, before dropping his hand and nodding. I nod to him, and watch as he walks past me and makes his way upstairs.

I stay on the staircase for a while, occasionally having to wipe another tear that falls from my eyes. My father was a shrink, or a psychiatrist, or doctor... well, something like that at least. I hardly ever saw him. He had to travel a lot for his work and on the few occasions he was home, Pat and I hardly spoke to him, we just never knew him well enough to, and so, never really tried. I never thought it was particularly important to stay close to my father. I kind of always thought we'd just hang out another time. But, I guess we just... ran out of it.

It's just, over the last few months, Rick's become my father figure, and I'd never realised it, not until now. And I am so grateful for that. So grateful that I truly believe I'd give up my life for these people. Because that's what you do for family.

Finally, I pull myself off the stairs and head up. I'm about to go and change my bandages in the bathroom, but I can hear Rick in there, so I head into the bedroom instead. I smile at the ceiling ornament, remembering Carl's frustrated expression when he had to wear odd shoes instead. I glance around, seeing a poster of a band that I vaguely recognise.

But then, I see the ukulele.

I grin at it's smooth, light surface, remembering when Carl and I found the music room back when we explored the tombs together. I go over to it, surprised that we'd never noticed it before, seeing as it's right next to the door on the shelf. _Hidden in plane sight._ I take it off the shelf and go back to the bed, strumming a few cords into it, quietly, so that I don't disturb Rick. I'm a little rusty, but after a few minutes I get my rhythm back and grin at the music I make. I've missed music. I've missed how you can feel it. Like, the vibrations and the emotion it can give you if it's good enough, or if there's simply enough passion behind it.

I try to think of a song I know how to play. Or _knew_ rather, remembering one, Candy by Paulo Nutini. So I begin playing, concentrating as the music brings back the nostalgia. It makes me think of my family. My _real _family. But, I think I can finally let go of them now. I'll never forget them. Not ever. But I think I deserve to let them go, to finally let them lay to rest.

So I strum away at the instrument, humming quietly with the music, and after a while, I'm singing, too.

_'Darling, I'll bathe your skin,_  
_I'll even wash your clothes,_  
_Just give me some candy,_  
_Before I go._

_Oh, darling, I'll kiss your eyes,_  
_And lay down on your rug,_  
_Just give me some candy,_  
_After my hug,'_

I stop the song, putting down the ukulele. Rick's probably left the bathroom now, so I stand up, leave the bedroom, placing the instrument back on the shelf. When I gently push the bathroom door open I find it's empty. So I go in, but I realise there aren't enough bandages in the first aid box left, so I go downstairs, hearing Rick turn the page in his book from the bedroom Michonne slept in the night before.

I find the bandages on the kitchen counter. It's one that Michonne must've found yesterday. So I grab it, but as I turn back to leave the kitchen again I become aware of a sort of shuffling noise, or dragging of feet. But it's too neat to be walker's. For a moment, I just assume it's Carl and Michonne, returning early because they've forgotten something. I almost go and greet them.

But it's not my family.  
It's not the voices that define home to me.  
It's not even the sound of a walker.

My whole body tenses, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, goose bumps rippling through my whole body, because my ears are met by the unwelcome voice of a stranger. Gruff, Southern... But to my body shaking horror, the closer the stranger comes, the more voices I hear that accompany him.

Fuck.  
Oh, fuck!

* * *

**Notes**

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_


	19. Claimed, Part 2: Playing with Food

**Warning: **This chapter contains mild sexual violence. Not graphic, just may be disturbing for some readers.

**Oliver's POV**

I freeze, dread bleeding through my body like venom. My eyes widen and my body courses with adrenaline, sending my whole anatomy on red alert with silent sirens blaring in my mind, screaming for me to get myself out of danger.

I startle when someone tries the back door, leaping into the wall and flattening my back against it out of sight of any windows from the porch.

"Dammit. It ain't open, Joe."

I hear another someone try the door, shoving their weight against the strong wooden surface, but it's locked. I almost feel relieved, but then my heart drops and my gaze shoots to the front door. _Oh, shit. _With the cable tied around it and the couch propped against it, there'd be no chance that they could get in that way, but to my horror, I see that during the day, Rick has moved the couch a little way away from the door and the cable is still lying on the couch after Michonne arrived yesterday.

Then another man talks, his voice shrill and cracked. "Let's check the front," he says gruffly, as if he could unintentionally read my terrified thoughts.

I curse under my breath, but I know that there is nothing I can do as all of the intruders begin to make their way around the porch. So I launch myself out of the kitchen, barely missing the men's sights as I silently leap up the staircase, appreciating the awful mixture of drugs and adrenaline as it numbs the throb in my head and body.

I hear them break open the front door with ease and I flinch as the wood cracks and splinters from its already broken hinges. _How could we have left ourselves so vulnerable?!_

I make it to Rick's room. "Rick," I hiss at the sleeping man, panic threatening to make me shake him. I watch desperately as his eyes flick around under his lids, dreaming, or having a nightmare. "Rick. _Wake up._"

His eyes snap open and he startles at seeing me so close and looking so terrified. "Wh-" But I shake my head frantically, waving my hands in front of him to get him to stay silent.

That's when Rick hears them, too, as someone downstairs cries out in pain and the rest of them erupt in awful laughter like cackling dogs.

Rick tenses, shock and dread sweeping his expression and I glance desperately over my shoulder at the door that I foolishly left open in my panic. But I know that we will be heard if I close it now, so I look back to Rick, who stuffs his watch into his pocket and silently rolls off of the bed. In one large step, Rick flattens me and himself to the wall next to the door and we wait as a man walks down the hallway and goes into the office.

When we are sure the stranger won't hear us, Rick grabs my collar and pulls me to the bed, roughly shoving me to crouch and climb under it. He grabs his book and gracelessly rolls under the bed with me, his breath catching as he strains himself. But I catch a glimpse of the water bottle that he has left up on the bedside table.

Evidence...

So I tap Rick's shaking shoulder and point to it. He almost winces, cursing under his breath and then he goes to reach it, but I grab his shirt and shove him back under the bed when I hear the other man about to leave the office. Rick gets back under the bed just in time and we freeze in our panic, mouths open and our hands outstretched pointlessly.

_Don't see us! Don't see us!_

The man doesn't see us and walks past the bedroom into another room. I think mine and Carl's bedroom. We ease up slightly, and I can hear Rick trying his best to silence his wheezing and panting, but then the man comes back. We freeze again and I hold my breath, feeling a bead of sweat roll down my forehead as the man walks into the room, slowly stepping closer to the bed. I watch, terrified and shaking as I stare at his brown and blood stained boots, and the ends of his denim jeans, and the thin barrel of his rifle as he circles the bed like a vulture.

Rick's hands shake, and I can see the quivering shine of his wedding ring beside me on his finger.

The stranger goes over to the closet, kicking a stray shirt out of the way before swinging the closet door open. He peers inside and I beg Rick inside of my head to keep his breathing quiet. He's doing well, but I can almost feel the cough that he is fighting desperately against.

Finding nothing and no one, the man closes the closet and then goes to the wardrobe. I listen as he runs his hand over the wooden surface and then a small cloud of dust falls to his feet as he wipes it off of his palms.

Rick makes a quiet choking noise and I dart my head around to look at him, relieved when I realise that he is only looking at his watch; not about to cough and give away our hiding spot.

Eleven in the morning.

Another rush of adrenaline and panic surges through me, no longer comforted to know the exact time for once. Michonne said 'before noon' and with only one hour left until then, Carl and Michonne could be back at any moment. They'll walk right into these guys...

The man walks over, standing right in front of us. I could reach out and touch his boot if I had such a death wish. Rick winces in fear, but I can't move. Paralysed and terrified, I just close my eyes, like a child playing hide and seek. _If I can't see him, then he can't see me. __**You're logic is stupid and pointless... **__Shh... __**You're both going to die. **__Please? __**You're both about to get dragged out from under here and have your throats slit open. **__Please, stop..._

The man steps to the other side of the bed closest to Rick, before slumping onto the mattress. But in his fall, the man causes the bed to cave in on us, slamming the planks of wood into the back of my searing head.

With every ounce of my effort and will power, somehow I manage to keep my horrific wince silent. My head reels and pounds unbearably and I cradle it desperately in my hands. _**FUCK! **_I force my scream to stay in my throat, and with the strain I feel like my head is about to explode! Until finally I just go limp, resting my face on the cold wooden floor with itchy dust clumps sticking to my left cheek. But I don't care. I just need the pain to stop. Until finally, the pain decreases to a bearable amount, and I will myself to stay silent as I lie still beside Rick, fearing that if I do move again I'll scream from the agony.

I listen blankly, catatonically, as the man settles into the bed and grunts a little, shifting his weight a little before finally going quiet, and his breathing becomes slow and calm as he drifts off to sleep.

It's a long time before I feel Rick move. I dare to look at him, wincing only slightly as I see him slowly shimmy himself out from under the bed. But again, I have to grab him and pull him back under when I hear another man coming up the stairs, realising where Carl gets his unawareness from.

Rick quietly and quickly sets himself back next to me, just as the man gets to the top of the staircase and walks to the room.

"Yo!" he barks, knocking loudly on the door frame.

We freeze, terrified that he has seen us.

But he just stands there, watching his sleeping friend in the bed. "Comfy?"

The man on the bed rouses and grunts as he awakens, and I close my eyes, overwhelmed by my mixture of relief and terror. "You're wakin' me up, to see if I'm comfortable?" the tired man growls irritably.

"I wanna lie down."

"Choose another bed, son of a bitch."

"Them's kid's beds," the man says, stepping into the room and advancing on his companion. "I want this one."

"It's claimed."

"I didn't hear it," the man counteracts him. _'Claimed'? What the fuck is claimed? _"You're gonna have to lay claim somewhere else."

I listen, keeping my eyes closed and begging them to go away, for them to leave the room and sort out whatever it is that they are angry about somewhere else. But that doesn't happen. They grab each other and begin fighting.

The man who entered the room first is thrown to the floor and I stare at him as he is pinned to the wooden surface and wrestles with his 'friend'. _He'll see us! He'll fucking see us! _The second man grabs his jaw, before letting go and then socking him around the face.

That's when he sees us.

Both Rick and I flinch and push ourselves backwards, but it's too late. The man's eyes widen as his shocked gaze meets the both of ours. But the other man wraps his hands around his neck before he can utter a warning, making his face turn an awful purple colour.

"Len! Stop!" he gargles, struggling for breath.

But 'Len' doesn't stop. Heart pounding, head reeling, and sweat streaming down my face, I stare at the choking man as he stares right back at me. I almost feel sorry for him. How could they fight over something so stupid. There are already living dead monsters trying to rip us apart out there. Why would 'friends' go after each other, too? It doesn't make sense! These people are animals.

Monsters.

The man's eyes bulge for a long moment, before finally closing. His black banana meets the floor as he leaves consciousness and Len pants over his friend, exhausted after his exertion, before letting go of him and standing. I wonder for a moment if he has killed him, and I fear that he will come back and attack us as a walker. But I can hear the guy breathing and I almost let out a sigh of relief, but I don't, because relief is impossible right now.

Len laughs. "My bed now, jack off," he sneers.

My eyes widen as I see his feet raise as he leaps on the bed, but this time I flatten my head to the floor before the bed slams into me. It hurts, but nowhere near as bad as it would have. But I can't say the same for Rick; he was distracted by the unconscious man in front of us, and both his shoulders and head slam into the floor just like mine did. But thankfully, he stays silent. I stare at him worriedly, but there is nothing either of us can do.

Len lets out a loud moan, letting his leg hang over the bed as it sags under his weight and presses into our spines. But eventually, he goes quiet and falls asleep.

I hear banging, recognising it as the tennis ball Carl had before. Worry hits me over the face as my fear for Carl and Michonne grows unbearably, willing them to stay out there, stay away from the house, these people.

A long time passes and my terror forces me to shrink away from everything, blocking it all out as best as I can. Rick shuffles past me, tapping me on the shoulder and snapping me back into reality. He motions me to stay where I am, so I do as he says and I watch as he climbs out from under the bed, pausing every few moments when Len makes a noise. But eventually, he gets out and crouches beside the bed. A moment passes, until Rick glances at me and motions me to come out.

Silently, I shimmy out from under the bed, my head reeling and focusing on keeping my tightening airways open. I glance at Len, seeing him spread across the bed above the covers, out cold just like the other man on the floor, only it's at his own will unlike his friend.

I creep to the bedroom door, but both me and Rick can hear another man walking up the stairs as he throws the tennis ball to the floor as he goes.

Rick leaps towards me, leading me out of the bedroom and flattening both of us against the wall of the bedroom that Carl and I have been sleeping in. I catch a glimpse of the man; Caucasian, grey hair and a rough beard.

I back away from the door into the room, my whole body rigid and fighting against my simple commands as it shakes, wanting nothing more than to curl up into a ball and disappear. But I make myself move, and Rick and I rush into the small separate room where the bed is, and I see my machete on the duvet, so I quickly grab it, holding it in my hand as I flatten my spine against the wall on the right, and Rick takes the left.

I hold my breath, as the banging of the tennis ball comes closer and the man walks into the room. _He'll find us! Fuck! Fuck! _He walks to the doorway of the second room we are in and I stay paralysed to the wall, begging him to not walk any further. I see the fluorescent flash of the tennis ball fly between me and Rick and bounce off of the wall next to the window, then propel itself back into the man's hand, which is only inches away from my face.

I shut my eyes as he does it again, wincing when I hear the bang.

_Don't see us. Don't see us. Please?_

The man pauses a moment, before finally deciding to back away. But then, my whole anatomy shakes and screams in terror as he says his next words.

"I know you're in there, kid... I can see you in the reflection."

**Carl's POV**

Michonne's been in there for too long, and it's too quiet. It doesn't feel right.

I leave the other bedroom I am in and rush into the children's room. "Michonne?" I call, just as Michonne comes out of the second children's bedroom. She breathes heavily and flattens herself against the doors, looking too distant for my comfort. "Everything okay?"

She snaps out of her troubled thoughts and looks at me. "Yeah. It's fine," she says shakily, before composing herself a little and standing a little straighter.

But I can tell that she is lying so I step forward, eyeing up the door. "There's a baby in there," I tell her, my voice softer than I meant it to be.

"It's a dog," she lies.

I stare at her for a moment, nodding a fraction. "Oliver and I... we," I pause, making sure my voice won't betray my emotions again, "we saw a baby... yesterday," I explain, glancing at the floor to hide my face under my hat, thinking about my sister.

I hear Michonne sigh a little.

"My dad let me name 'er," I say, slowly looking up at her again. "Maybe..." I exhale for a moment, silently allowing myself to entertain the idea of there being a place where all of our deceased loved ones are right now, together and happy. "Maybe her and Andre are... are together, somewhere."

Michonne smiles, relaxing a little away from the door.

I purse my lips at her, unable to bring myself to smile back.

"Come on. It's almost noon," she says softly, taking my shoulders and leading me out of the room. "Your dad'll wonder where we are if we're late."

We leave the house with both of our supply bags full to a satisfactory amount, and we head back to the house.

"What was it that you and Oliver were laughing about so much last night anyway?" Michonne asks me with a grin, presumably over hearing what Dad said to me this morning, or just overhearing Oliver and I laughing last night, too.

I smirk at my odd shoes as I walk. "Oh... uh, well, we were playing scrabble," I say.

Michonne cocks an eyebrow at me. "I've never heard of such a hilarious scrabble game," she says sarcastically, sensing that I am missing out quite a lot of the story and she raises her brow for me to continue.

I smirk and shrug. "I kinda tried to make up a word. But, Oliver proved me wrong," I say, missing out the part about the centrefold... and the kissing... and the touching.

"What was it?" Michonne grins. "The word?"

I look at the floor, unable to relax my relentless smirk. "Ostentatiousness," I answer.

Michonne laughs. "Didn't all those books you two read together teach you anything?"

I frown at her. "I knew it's wasn't a real word," I defend myself.

Michonne suppresses her grin. "I know," she says, straightening her face and faking a serious expression. "But I bet it _could _be a real word," she jokes.

I grin at her. "That's what I said," I mutter, chuckling. "But he wouldn't make it up for me."

Michonne laughs. "Good. You need to learn how to admit defeat," she chuckles, before settling he expression and watching me for a moment, and I don't even try not to roll my eyes. "You know, the first time I met him he was talking to himself," Michonne says, grinning. "Somethin' 'bout brushing?" she gives me a playfully puzzled look.

I smirk and nod, smiling to myself as I remember when I caught him talking to himself before we had our first kiss. "Yeah. He does that. It's cu-" I almost say 'cute', "uh, cool," I save myself.

I see Michonne watching me out of the corner of my eye and I straighten my face and look at her. "What?" I ask when she doesn't say anything for a few seconds, swallowing nervously.

She purses her lips, hesitating to answer me so she looks away.

But I tilt my head. "C'mon, what?" I insist. "Tell me."

She stops and looks at me, raising her brow. "Carl... I thought you'd've known by now that you can tell me anything," she says, resting her hand on my shoulder.

My expression drops. "W-what?" I breathe, getting a sudden rush of adrenaline as I fear that I know what she is talking about.

Michonne tilts her head and cocks a brow. "I'm not an idiot, Carl, your Dad may be pretty oblivious, an' I may not say a lot... but not much gets past me," she says.

I stare at her, knowing that she knows. My stomach churns and I chew my lip and look away, feeling my cheeks heat up and my heartbeat rack my whole chest.

"Carl. It's okay. I'm happy for you both."

My head snaps up to look at her, wondering if she is lying or making fun of me. But it looks like she's telling the truth. "R-really?" I ask doubtfully, my breath catching.

"Of course," she nods. "I think it's wonderful. I think you two are good for each other, I've said the same thing to him, too."

I feel a smile spread over my lips. A wide smile, that even if I were to try it won't be suppressed easily. Michonne pats my shoulder and gently pulls me to keep walking. But after a moment, I get over my inner elation and become curious about something.

"When did you talk to Oliver about it?" I ask, wondering why he had never said anything.

Michonne wrinkles her nose slightly. "I haven't really... It was back at the Prison. I said you'd make a cute couple - he blushed darker than you right now," she smirks. "I wasn't sure, but I sussed you both out."

"How?" I ask, glancing at her under my hat to hide the blushing she was referring to.

She grins, averting her eyes for a moment. Until finally looking at me. "I saw the hickey on his neck before we left... I'm pretty sure he didn't give it to himself."

I look away and a choking sound falls out of my throat, feeling the skin on my cheeks and neck burn an even darker crimson. "I-I... w-we... I-"

"Carl. I don't need details..."

"I wasn't gonna give you any!" I bark. "Th-there are none to give anyway." Maybe that one was a slight fib... but Michonne doesn't need to know that.

She smiles empathetically and slings her arm around my shoulder, even at my protest. "Don't worry about it, Carl. I was fourteen once, too. I know what it's like... Boys are fun... _Lot's _o' fun. You'll find that out soon enough," she chuckles mischievously.

I can feel my cheeks and neck burn even more, so much so that I can feel the heat radiating from them and I am afraid that Michonne can feel them, too. "Michonne,_ stop,_" I beg, embarrassment forcing me to cringe badly.

She laughs again, dropping her arm from me and bumping my shoulder with hers. Despite how awkward I feel, there is nothing I can do to help my smile.

I glance at her. "I'm... I'm gonna tell him. Dad, I mean. I'm gonna tell him about me and Oliver."

Michonne smiles, looking glad, or maybe proud. She is about to say something, but that's when we hear the gunshots. I swivel around, seeing the house. My heart and stomach leap to my throat in alarm and I begin to rush towards it. But Michonne grabs my arm, stopping me from going any further.

"What're you doing?!" I hiss at her, pulling my arm out of her grasp. But I startle when I hear the screaming, and when I turn to the house again I see Dad sprinting for us. Only...

He's alone.

Dread engulfs me and my legs move on impulse, but Dad grabs me around my middle and shoves me the other way.

"What-? What're you doing?! Get off me!" I claw at his jacket, kicking my legs out to get free. But he is too strong and won't let go. "Dad, st-!"

"Go!" he barks at me. "Go!"

But I fight against him, cupping my only free hand to my mouth as I am almost lugged over my father's shoulder.

"Oli-!"

But Michonne stops my shout as she clasps her hand over my mouth, helping Dad pull me away. I'm so confused, and afraid, and infuriated, and I try to shove them away. But they are too strong against just me. But I don't stop. I fight and fight, but I get further and further away from the house as Dad and Michonne pull me away. Too distraught to bring the words to my convulsing throat as I fear the worst has happened.

They wrench me to a train track, the one we passed before we arrived at the suburb and Michonne finally releases my mouth.

"Get off! What the hell're you doing! We have to go back! We have to get him!" I bellow, desperate for answers. "P-please? Pl-pl... Dad..." I'm muttering. "Dad, please."

Dad only shakes his head, wincing in his despair and unable to explain himself.

"What happened?" I get out, so afraid of his answer that my arms and spine begin to shake violently.

"I'm so sorry," Dad murmurs. "Carl, I'm sorry."

I stumble away from him, only just managing to catch myself before I fall over. I stare at my dad, tears welling in his eyes and his guilt spilling from him. "No..." I start whimpering, bringing my hands to my mouth, pressing the back of my trembling extremities to my lips, "n-no... No!" I wail, unable to come to terms with his apologies.

Michonne wraps her arms around me as I double over, crying at the earth and train tracks, overwhelmed and mortified. My sobs shake and rack my whole body, but I pull myself away from her. Mortified. So I glare at my father.

"What did you do?" I order. "What happened to him?"

Dad's eyebrows arch and tears roll down his cheeks, but I feel no sympathy or tolerance for him, so I glare harder, silently forcing him to speak.

"They... they got him, Carl. I'm so sorry. But there was..." he shakes his head, "there was nothing I could do," he sobs, roughly wiping the tears from his face and looking away from me.

I shake my head, refusing to believe him as more cries come out of me at their own accord and I fumble with where I move my stumbling feet, unable to process what he has just told me. "He... He's dead?"

Dad stares at me for a long moment, before simply nodding.

My body goes limp. I crash to the train tracks, slamming my knees and forearms to the wooden planks under me as I crumple, overpowered by my sorrow. I cry, unable to stop myself. So I don't stop... I don't think that I never will.

Dad grabs my shoulders and pulls me to stand. I would fight against him, scream at him that I hate him and for him to leave me the fuck alone... but I'm finished. I can't bring the words to my mouth. So I just keep crying, clutching helplessly to Michonne's side as we turn right and wander aimlessly along the tracks.

**Oliver's POV**

_~ Back To Earlier ~_

"I know you're in there kid... I can see you in the reflection."

My eyes wrench open and my heart stops. Everything stops. Unable to process his words, I look desperately at the window and my eyes meet the man's as he stares right back at me in the reflection with a smug smirk on his expression. So I jerk my head out of his vision. As if it can help me now. _Oh, fuck! No, no, no, no! I'm done. I'm truly done this time. Betrayed by my own damned reflection._

"Come out now an' I won't kill ya. I jus' wanna see who I'm dealin' with," the man half jokes, because he saw that I am just a teenager. "Come on now, before I'm gonna have to come in there an' get ya out."

_**Oliver, he doesn't know that Rick is in here...**_

My breath catches as I look at Rick, keeping my face out of the man's vision in the window so that he doesn't see me looking at my friend. Rick stares at me wildly, terrified. He begins to move, about to leap out on the man and fight him, but I widen my eyes and shake my head.

Rick grimaces in fear and protest, readying himself to attack. But we both know that it wont end well for either of us. No, there's only one way that this can go...

I wince, and I look at Rick again, fighting my tears as I mouth, _"keep him safe"_ to him. Rick furrows his brow, so I repeat myself. _"Keep him safe."_ I know what I have to do now, so my only hope is that Rick can escape and save Carl. I need Carl to be safe. I need him to be alright.

Rick's face drops, understanding what I am about to do. He is about to move, about to leap out and kill himself, so I move before he has the chance.

"There you are," the stranger fakes a surprised smile, mocking me.

I can't respond, as I am shaking so badly that I have to focus solely on not collapsing.

"What's your name, kid?"

I can see Rick using every ounce of his will power not to leap out of cover and try to help me, but I refuse to acknowledge him. Silently begging him to stay where he is.

"I said, what's your name, boy?"

My chest convulses as I try to force my words out of my throat. "Oliver," I answer finally.

"Joe," he says. For a moment, I think he is calling me Joe, but I realise that he has just told me his own name.

I nod, because what else can I do?

"You got a group?" Joe asks. I begin to shake my head, but he interrupts me. "Don't lie to me, Oliver... I don't tolerate liars." I stare at him, clutching my middle to hide my shaking arms and he asks again if I am in a group.

I nod, yes. "But they're out on a run," I force from tightening my throat, knowing that he knows I won't have been in this house alone.

Joe's head rolls back, narrowing his eyes at me sceptically. "Why'd they leave you here?"

My mind races for a convincing enough lie, hoping that Joe can't tell. So I lift my hand and point to the bandage on my temple.

"What happened to ya?" he asks, eyeing up the injury and looking over the rest of my bruised face and hands. I stare at him, doubting that he really cares and overwhelmingly confused by why he is asking in the first place. But he stares at me, with that horrible mocking expression on his face, almost as if he is toying with me before he slits my throat. Playing with his food...

He steps forward, insisting that I answer him and I flinch, reflexively jerking my hand in front of me and stepping away from him into the wall behind where Rick is. My answer is desperate, and I am too scared to even calm myself.

"I got hit. S-someone hit me with a gun."

Joe retreats slightly, motioning me to step a little more into the main bedroom, and I reluctantly follow his orders, moving further away from Rick who is barely able to restrain himself from reaching out to help me. But he can't. We both know that.

"Why didn't they jus' shoot ya?" Joe asks.

"He wasn't trying to kill me."

Joe pauses, thinking about my answer.

"Please? What do you want from me?" I finally ask, desperate for some kind of reassurance from him. I don't trust him at all. But I somehow feel better when he is talking, like if he keeps talking it will give me enough time to magically delete him from existence.

"Come with me," Joe says, deliberately not answering me as he tosses the tennis ball to the floor and catches it again.

I stay where I am, shaking too much to tell my body to move even if I wanted to.

"Claimed!"

I startle at voices downstairs and Joe briefly turns to look to the door.

"Claimed!" Another man shouts.

"Shut the hell up!" Len shouts from the other bedroom. "I'm tryina sleep!"

I silently begin pulling my machete from its sheath, but Joe turns and sees me before I can do anything. "You don't wanna do that, Oliver. I got my men down there. They'll hear ya and after you're done killin' me, they'll jus' kill ya anyway."

_Why is he doing this? Why doesn't he just get his friends now?! Why is he pretending that I could ever be strong enough to kill him anyway? _I put my machete back, tensing my jaw as I glare at him.

"There's a woman backed up in here!" a man blares from downstairs.

Len rushes out of the other bedroom, not noticing me or Joe inside of this one. "What?! Is she hot?!"

My eyes widen. _Oh no! Are they back already? No, no! _

"Don't grab your pecker jus' yet, she ain't here," a man downstairs answers. My heart pounds and I almost sob with relief.

"What the hell're you hollerin' about?" Len orders, leaning over the banister.

My eyes shift from him to Joe, almost too terrified to process the intruders as they converse with each other. Joe looks amused by my fear, and it only makes me more scared of him.

"Found 'er shirt," someone answers. "Must o', washed it this mornin'."

I wince. I left the shirt on the radiator.

Joe steps towards me, and I instinctively grab for my machete handle again. But he raises his brow. "Don't, Oliver. Jus' come with me," he says. I want to say that he is reassuring me, but I feel nothing close to reassured, just terrified and infuriated my how comfortable he seems.

"Joe? What're you chin waggin' to now?" Len says impatiently. My shaking increases as Len steps into the room. He sees me, and his eyes widen and he raises his rifle to my face. "Who the fuck is this?"

I see Rick shuffle out of my peripheral vision and I close my eyes, willing him to stay where is with everything left in me. But he knows that if he moves, he will be seen, and he wont stand a chance of saving Carl or Michonne. So to my relief, he stays where he is.

"This is Oliver," Joe says.

A choking sound escapes me as I drop my sheathed machete to my side again, holding it loosely in my shaking hand. There's nothing I can do, and I know that if I stay here any longer, Rick might not be able to even help himself. So I need to go, now, and Rick can save Carl and Michonne. He has to. Like I said before, I'd give up my life for them. I guess now is the moment I have to live up to the statement. For my family. For Carl.

Joe looks at Len and pulls his gun down a little, aiming it away from me. He leans closer to him and whispers something. "You wanna claim 'im?" I think I hear. But I can't be sure, because it doesn't make any sense at all.

Len grimaces. "No, man! I ain't into that, if you find a chick then I'm down," he snickers. "I'm sure Dan or Billy'll wanna get in on the claim, though."

I am too afraid to figure out what they mean, and I'm not so sure I want to find out. But I'm terrified because I know that soon... I'm going to find out anyway.

Joe suppresses his grin and motions me to follow them again, and this time, I force my legs to move.

Just as I get to them, Len yanks my machete from my shaking hands. "Claimed," he sneers at me, pulling it over his back and readjusting the size.

He grabs my shoulder and pulls me out of the bedroom after Joe, and I stumble out, only just catching myself as Joe takes my other shoulder, pulling me out of Len's grasp and tugging me to the staircase, both of them snickering at my struggle. Even with the adrenaline taking over my body, my head throbs and the terror is causing my asthma to react again. But I fight the cough throbbing in my throat.

Another man comes up the staircase, and when he sees me and has gotten over his short surprise, he grins. "Who's this?" he sneers, standing too close to me and I recoil into the wall, looking away submissively and suppressing my grimace as I smell the alcohol and drugs on his breath.

"Lou, this is Oliver... Oliver, Lou," Joe interrupts nonchalantly and undeterred by the man's uncomfortable behaviour.

Lou stares at me, causing my breath to hitch, trying with everything that I have to stop my relentless shaking as I stare at the floor, too afraid to look him in the eyes.

"You wanna claim?" Joe asks. _Oh god, what does he mean? Oh god._

Lou seems to examine me for a moment, before shaking his head and turning to look at his friend, wrinkling his nose. "Nah, I gotta go take a dump," he says, and then heads up the stairs.

I swear that I see Rick move across the bedroom, and I hold my breath, begging that Lou didn't see him, and to my relief he didn't and continues to the bathroom.

Joe shrugs, before he takes my shoulder and pulls me from the wall, sending a shooting pain through my head as it jerks from the movement, making me wince. Joe doesn't apologise. I didn't think he would, so I do as he wants and I walk with him into the living room.

"You found a shirt," Joe says to the three other men in the room. "She could be fifty miles awa-" he stops, and then quickly turns to me, furrowing his brow. "Wait, I guess she's not is she? She's gotta come back for you right?"

I stare at him, and he steps closer to me and points a finger at me. "When is she comin' back?"

The three other men in the room were all slumped either on the couch, or the floor, but now, all but one stands up and stares at me. I stare back, wild eyed and feeling a bead of sweat roll down my face, my heart feels almost exhausted from beating so fast.

"When?" Joe orders in a growl, making my blood curdle.

"I d-don't know," I answer shakily.

"Claimed!"

I suddenly dart my head to look at the man who spoke. Brown, wiry hair and beard, overweight and with a terrifyingly desperate look in his monstrous eyes. I freeze, paralysed as his word rings in my ears.

The man who was sat next to him glares at his friend. "Dan, you bastard," he grumbles, almost jealously, before sighing and nodding reluctantly. "All right, fine. But don't spoil 'im too much. I want my turn."

"You'll get your turn, Billy. After. Jus' give us a minute," Dan replies, standing a little straighter and exchanging a glance with Joe.

"A minute!" Billy laughs. "Yeah, that's all you'll need."

For some reason, my mind doesn't click to what he's talking about. For some reason, I don't catch onto what is about to happen to me. Or my mind doesn't let me figure it out. Nothing like it has ever happened to me before, and I guess because of that, I believed it never would. Never _could, _rather. Because in real life, before everything went to shit, stuff like this just didn't happen to you.

I should run. I should hide. I should fight. But I just stand there in the doorway, frozen to the spot, as Dan marches towards me and grabs me by the arm.

I know what he is going to do now, and it sends every nerve in my body screaming in terror. I was afraid about getting my throat slit, or getting a bullet through my skull. But what will happen to me is so much worse. So much so that I would take a bullet or a cut across my jugular a thousand times if it means that what Dan will do to me doesn't happen.

But I can't choose how I die. I have no control over how I will be mutilated... violated... raped... So Dan drags me down the hallway and past them all as they laugh at my struggle.

"No!" I roar. "No! Get off of me, please!"

Dan laughs and shoves me harder away from his sneering companions, but I grab at them desperately, catching jacket sleeves and trouser legs. Something or someone cuts my face, and I can taste blood in my mouth as Dan pries me out of the hallway. I fight against the monster, but he violently grabs under my arms and throws me into the utility room, slamming the door behind us.

I try to run to the door, twist the key and make a run for it. But Dan grabs my arm, forcing me to face him. "Now c'mon, boy. This doesn't have to be difficult 'less you make it so."

My breath collapses in my throat, my heart threatening to throw itself out of my throat, and he grabs both of my shoulders, holding me still. All I can do is stare at him, panting and blinking away the terrified tears in my eyes, smelling his sour breath as he grins horribly at me.

I struggle against him, my skin crawling, "L-Let me go, please. Get off!"

But his grip tightens around my shoulders, pushing me backwards into the counter behind me. He lets go, but presses his finger against my chest to make me stay where I am, but I shove his hand away, wanting it as far away from me as humanly possible.

But he punches me.

I let out a cry, clutching the side of my face as it throbs from his fist, my breath tightening and hiccuping as I bring my eyes back to him, so terrified that I'm frozen. I won't make it to either door, and he's just watching me, waiting for me to try.

"W-what do you want?" I mutter, shaking all over.

"Take off your shirt."

My stomach drops, and I hug myself, absolutely terrified as I shake my head in refusal, too afraid to summon my voice anymore.

"Take." He steps closer, and I flinch as his eyes widen, the cold in them piercing me like a dagger. "Off... Your shirt... Now."

My expression tries to contort, tears spilling from my eyes, shaking my head again. "No. I don't w-wan-"

_THWACK._

I crash to the floor, and then Dan is there, grabbing my middle. I scream, shoving at him as he lifts me from the floor again and stands me up, stumbling as he lets go of me and shoves me into the counter again.

"Take it off!"

I cry, trembling all over and unable to look at him.

"NOW!" he growls, raising his hand to hit me again. But he stops, because I relent, shaking and weeping and too terrified to function as I pull off my T-shirt and flannel, strangling them in my hands as I hold them against my chest, as if it will be enough to deter him from what he wants with me.

The terror and repulse stabs me in the gut, and I have to stop myself from doubling over, not wanting to go near the floor, or this counter, or that monster.

"That's it," he tells me, his voice coarse, dangerous, hungry.

I wince, holding the fabric tighter against me.

"Look at me."

I scrunch my eyes closed, and so I don't anticipate it as he grabs me, forcibly gripping my shoulders again, making me square up to him.

"LOOK AT ME!" he roars into my cheek, ripping my shirts from my hands.

I grunt my cry, the pressure on my lungs and my asthma making everything worse, gasping from breath, begging him to stop. But he rips my clothes out of my hands, infuriated by my resistance, and then his hands are on my skin, groping me.

"Stop!" I barely manage to utter, my voice failing on me, pulling my face as far away from him as possible.

He keeps muttering into my ear, horrible things, things that I can never un-hear or repeat, and then I am shoved onto my back.

I try to leap from the floor, I try to reach for the key I left in the back door, I try to escape. But Dan shoves me back onto the floor before I can even bring my legs under me, slamming my chin into the cold tiles with an agonising cry from my lungs.

"C'mon now, boy," the monster cackles, pinning my hands to the floor and sitting on top of my spine.

I cry out as the unbearable pain rockets through my whole body, sending mocking stars into my blurring vision. He pulls me over onto my back, but I close my eyes, frantically wriggling under his iron grip.

"Stop your squirmin'!"

"No! Stop!" I whine, coughing as my wind pipe begins to close on itself. "G-get off me!"

But he doesn't listen. He laughs, clawing at the bandage on my abdomen before grabbing at my ripped skin and using it to shove me back over onto my front.

I cry out, the air forcing itself from my chest as he sets his filthy, heavy form on top of me again, laughing at my horror.

I try to pull myself away, almost managing to roll out from under him. But he throws his fist at my jaw, sending me plummeting to the floor again with a loud grunt. I am almost knocked out, and I go limp, unwillingly letting him have enough time to begin unbuckling his jeans.

But the rip of his zipper pulls me back to reality and I force myself to move again. _**You should just give up, Oliver. You're going to die and there is nothing that you can do about it. **__No! No, I can escape. __**No. You can't. I'm sorry, but this is it. I'm so sorry, Oliver... but this is how you die.**_

Despite this, I still try, even as the monster shoves my face into the tiles and forces me to stay still underneath him, whispering horror into my ear, his sour breath bleeding over my skin. Tears stream down my face as I fight against him, but he is too strong.

Over the terrible blood pounding in my ears, I think I hear gunshots, and someone else cry out in the house. Somehow, my fear amplifies impossibly more than ever before, knowing that they've found Rick, too.

I become enraged. Pointlessly and helplessly furious at the whole world for letting this happen to us. I throw my fists out behind me at him, sobbing for him to stop. But he doesn't react, only laughs as he gropes at my jeans and shoves me with more merciless, sick violence.

I've always been terrified of death. Always feeling so much despair and sadness to those who have gotten there before me. But I'm jealous of them now. Now, I embrace death, welcome it. Anything over this. Whether it's an endless nothingness, Heaven or even Hell, I'd rather be there than here.

But suddenly, the utility room door swings open, banging into the wall as Joe launches himself through it. "Dan! It's Lou! C'mon help us!" he growls desperately.

Dan leans off of me, but I am too traumatised to move so I just gag and gasp into the floor, feeling the disgusting weight of his hand shift over the skin on my spine as he looks to Joe.

"I ain't done!" Dan hisses over his shoulder.

But Joe grabs him, pulling him off of my shaking body as I try to move, but I can't make my muscles work, I just shake. "Get your dirty ass moving!" Joe shouts at his friend. Dan glances at me hungrily as he reluctantly zips up his jeans again.

"HELP! JOE! HELP!" another scream emits itself through the house, along with another gunshot. I would have startled, but I'm too dazed, too horrified.

Joe turns to leave, pulling Dan to accompany him. "The kid ain't goin' anywhere! C'mon!" he orders. "He'll still be there when you come back!"

They rush out of the utility room, slamming the door behind them, and I am left alone. But I'm still alive, and I hate them for it. I try to bring myself to my feet, but I can't breathe. I gag and retch, half from my closing wind pipe, and the other half out of pure repulsed agony from what I've just had to experience.

I can handle the exhaustion. When I'm exhausted, I can still eventually manage to fish out my inhaler. But it's this terror... The terror is too much to handle. It makes my hands shake and convulse, so badly that I can't control them at all. I can't get my fingers to grab my inhaler. I am helpless. Too terrified to function.

Somehow, I muster enough power over my legs and bring them to stand up. Wincing from the pain shooting through my entire body and managing to gasp some air into my lungs, it hurts so much that I am sure I will pass out, but somehow I don't. Somehow I pick up my shirt, pulling it back on myself, tucking the collar of my flannel shirt into the hem of my jeans. It's like I am just so done with everything that my body wont allow me to give up anyway.

I hate it.

I stumble to the back door, hearing the screaming continuing from upstairs. But I block it out and force my hands to turn the key that no one had noticed was still in here, but my hands are still convulsing. So I crouch down and use my teeth, managing to turn the key that little bit to finally unlock it.

Then I stumble out of the house, falling onto my face on the porch, and when I bring myself to stand again I see the splatter of blood from my face across the wooden floor. I ignore it. _**Get away. Get away from here, Oliver. **_My legs do something I hope is a run, one leg after the other. Left, right, left, right. I beg that no one is following me, because if they are I have no chance. Already my chances are impossible, but I can't stay in there, I have to get away, even if it means I'm torn apart by teeth. I'd rather be torn apart by teeth than torn apart by those people.

I fall too many times, afraid that I won't be able to pick myself up again as my lungs beg for the air that once again eludes me, but I manage, somehow, running on pure, empty, raw instinct.

I get to a train track, the same one that we crossed before we found the suburb. I go left. Left has always felt like the first place to go, the first place you look. I run for what feels like hours, years, my whole body screaming with every step, or bump, or sob, or gag. Until it finally becomes too much.

I collapse.

Gasping for breath and retching when I don't find enough, I can feel my face burning blue and white, begging for oxygen. I try to get my inhaler, but even the exhaustion is too much now, and the shaking hasn't stopped, so it is impossible. I crave control over myself again, but it is completely impossible.

My vision becomes blurred and I roll my head to the side. For a moment, I thought I heard foot steps; some walker coming to make a meal out of the idiot lying here waiting for it. _Well come and get me. I don't care anymore. Not after that. I'm done. I give up._

"Oliver? Oh my god! Oliver!"

But that's not a walker...

My eyes blur over his dark skin and grey beanie hat... and their long, blond locks and fearful innocent faces... and her fair skin and short, grey hair.

_I'm dead aren't I? I'm really dead._

But then everything becomes too blurry, too dark, too heavy, too closed...

… I black out.

**Notes**

Hello! This was a pretty eventful chapter, huh?

Don't worry, Oliver's not dead. I said didn't I? I wouldn't do that to you again! Well, not for now at least... *evil laugh insert here*

And for any of you that are worried that he was raped, you will find out for sure soon, poor Oliver, I hated writing that, so I hope it was fricking worth it. :/

I'm guessing the majority of you have figured out who Oliver has found now? If not, then you'll find out soon. Anyway, yeah. I'm sorry if you wanted Oliver to stay with Carl and his group for the rest of season 4, but I already wrote that happening in my other fanfiction and I was getting bored writing the same stuff twice. So I mixed it up.

I know that I will lose subscribers for this, and I respect that. But it's my story, so I can do what I want with it :D

And don't worry to those of you that decide to stay with Oliver and Carl, they will find each other again, but in the mean time, I will keep the chapters short so that they don't become too boring, and the scenes with Carl will be brief, because obviously they wont be much different from the show except a few thing I will need to tweak for Oliver's character to fit in.

But with Oliver's story until Terminus (presumably) I will go into detail a little more, but I will still try not to let it become boring, if I can :) I hope you stick with me and the boys :)


	20. The Grove, Part 1: Not Everyone Died

Re-edited: 04/05/2015

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**Eli** Thank you, you're awesome! Yeah, I wanted the boys to be awkward and inexperienced. They are only 14 and 15 after all, and what with the apocalypse, they are really not good at understanding most of the stuff that their instincts are urging them to do. It's their discovery with each other and I can't wait for you to read it and catch up xx haha, confusing times for the boys.

* * *

**"Human" by Daughter**

* * *

**Carl's POV**

I hate him.

I hate him with everything in me. He's a coward. It was never me, or Oliver... It was always Dad. Dad was the coward. He said... he said that there was nothing he could do, that the back door was locked and he would have been caught. He said that when he climbed out of the window and onto the back porch… he could hear. He said that he could hear everything that was happening to him... to Oliver.

I thought I knew pain. It's like an old friend, no, a parasite, ever since this whole apocalypse started. It's latched onto my life and drained every last ounce of hope from my being. It's made me watch friends die, get shot, kill my mom, kill strangers... kill friends.

But I've never felt pain like this. It rips away at me, tearing into every cell of my anatomy until I feel like I'm not even human anymore, numb against it, hurting so much that I refuse to feel it any longer.

Some way down the torturous train track we are following, we find a sign on the side of a big train freight:

"SANCTUARY FOR ALL. COMMUNITY FOR ALL. THOSE WHO ARRIVE, SURVIVE. TERMINUS"

But I don't care. Not right now. Why would I want a sanctuary? There is no such place anymore. The only sanctuary is the people you care about. But I don't even care anymore. Why would I desire sanctuary when the only person that I truly relied on it for is gone?

I can hear Dad and Michonne deciding whether or not we should go. But I don't listen, and a moment later, or an hour, or a day, I don't know. Michonne takes my shoulder.

"Come on. Let's go," she says softly.

I don't say anything. I just move my legs while my mind continues to numb everything away.

Walking is good. Walking is a distraction. I focus solely on each wooden beam that I place my odd shoes on. I can't feel the pressure as I take each step. It's as if I'm not even attached to my own body anymore. No longer a part of myself.

Like a walker.

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

_I'm talking to Penelope. _

_She's dressed as Juliet for the school play rehearsal, with a green nylon gown on and her ginger hair braided and rolled around her head like a crown._

_"Ollie," Penelope says. Penelope used to call me that for short. "C'mon, it's just a kiss. We're best friends, it won't matter. Production value! Correct? We're all terrible actors - maybe if we kiss it'll make that play less awful?"_

_I smirk at her. "Penelope, I would. But Carl's my boyfriend. I'm not sure I should be kissing you." _

_She rolls her eyes and I lightly bump her shoulder, a little mockingly._

_"Fine," she shrugs coolly. "Then we'll just have a terrible play."_

_I grin at her. "It was gonna be terrible anyway. I threw up on you, remember?"_

_Penelope grimaces. _

_"Oh, yeah. You big cheese ball," she grins. "C'mon. Let's go find Sophia."_

_I furrow my brow as I take her hand and she pulls me to stand up. _

_"Sophia? Why Sophia?" I ask, confused and disorientated by the jumbled up time-line I seem to be living in right now._

_"She doesn't have a mean bone in her body," Penelope answers, only it wasn't really the answer to my question I was looking for, and her mouth didn't move when she said it, as if it wasn't ever her saying it at all._

_I look over my shoulder, suddenly feeling like someone is watching us. But my heart leaps to my throat when I think I see the vile monster who...__** Don't, Oliver.**__ I mean, when I think I see Dan. But his dark figure disappears behind the drama room door before I am sure I saw him. I panic for a moment, but then I force him to the back of my head. __**He's not there. He's not. You're okay, Oliver.**_

_"Where is she?" I ask Penelope, going back to our original subject and wondering how we will find a girl that neither of us have ever actually met before._

_"Terminus," Penelope answers._

_"What? What the heck is that?"_

_Penelope shrugs. "I dunno. Just, Terminus."_

_I stop, refusing to keep going when I am so confused. "Penelope... you don't even know who Sophia is. And I've never even met her!"_

"_Oh," Penelope watches me for a moment, considering my statement as she chews her lip. "Yeah," she says, and then she shrugs, "okay. Fine, let's go and find some pudding." she smiles, reaching forward to grab my hand and then pulling me to keep walking. "Come on, Ollie."_

_I grin. "Yeah. That sounds good to me."_

_She giggles. "You had a whole tin with Carl, and I'm sure you had more than he did. I don't know how you can eat more of that stuff."_

_I don't know what she is talking about! I could eat a house of pudding! _

_"There is _never_ enough pudding," I chuckle, as she continues to lead me through the school grounds. Only, I still feel like we are being watched, and I keep looking over my shoulder to see the figure disappear before I am sure I saw it. But I have to ignore it. If I ignore it, it wont really be there._

_This continues, until I can't bear it any longer. _

_"Penelope. Someone's following us," I whisper._

_"I know," she says. "He has been for a while."_

_I freeze to the spot, causing Penelope to drop my hand. Every muscle tenses in my body and I begin to shake again. _

_"W-why?" I ask frantically, barely a breath._

_"Oliver..." Penelope turns to me, her expression hard and serious. "He's come to finish what he started."_

_My legs knock, and I can feel my spine convulse in terror. _

_"No... No, please..." I beg the air, feeling his presence advance on me. But I can't see him! "Stop! NO DON'T!"_

_I flail my arms around me wildly, blindly trying to keep the monster away. But then I feel him smother me in his arms, his disgusting, dirty hands groping my body and slamming me to the gravel floor._

_"Stop your squirmin'," I hear his voice ring in my head._

_I reach out for Penelope. "Help! Please, help me!"_

_But Penelope stares at me, looking right through me and my attacker. But then, to my horror, right before my eyes, her skin becomes grey and rotten, falling off of her cheeks and eyebrow in clumps. She suddenly snaps her jaw at me as her eyes lose their green-ness and become glazed over and dead. _

_She's a walker!_

_"No!" I scream at her._

_Dan doesn't stop. Despite Penelope, he continues to molest me, and I scream out in my terror, too afraid of him to react any more to my dead friend, who is crawling towards me. She grabs my shoulders, while Dan sneers at me, pinning down my arms as he shoves his pelvis against me, and I try to push them away. I try to scream. But I am being suffocated, and Penelope lets out an ear splitting shriek, before sinking her black teeth into my temple._

* * *

"Oliver!"

I yelp and thrash against them, desperately trying to save myself.

"Oliver, calm down!"

"I have to get the pudding!" I wail. Somehow in my terror and frantic panic, my mind still worries about the fucking pudding, so afraid of the immediate danger and so I simply pretend it is not there. Some coping mechanism.

Someone holds my stomach and forehead down, and I am so terrified it's going to be Dan that I can't bear to open my eyes to look. So I just keep screaming.

"I need the pudding! Let go! I need to find the pudding!"

If I find the pudding, I can find Carl. I can be with him. How dare this monster keep me here? How dare he stop me from being with the boy I love?

"Get off! Don't! Let me find him! Let me find the pudding!"

Someone giggles.

"Mika, don't laugh! He's delirious!"

I hear a man's voice. But I know it isn't Dan. But... I recognise the voice, and it sends every inch of my mind reeling with familiarity._ Good _familiarity. My eyes snap open, and I struggle to focus, until finally, I see the blurry figure of Tyreese...

I freeze, keeping my eyes on him, too afraid to look away. _I'm dead? Oh shit. I'm really dead aren't I? __**Or he's come back from the dead to haunt you **_**as**_** you die.**_

"Oliver? Oliver, it's me," he speaks again, only I really can hear him. He's not just in my mind.

I try to say his name, but as it forms in my throat I begin coughing violently. He lets go of me as I heave, rolling onto my front to clear my stinging airways. Confused, head spinning and whole body shaking, I force myself to settle and look at him again.

"Mr. Williams?" I croak, coughing again.

He stares at me and nods shakily. "It's okay. We're here. Your safe now, everything's gonna be alright. Everyone is-"

Only, I wheel my head round to see the 'we' and the 'everyone' he was talking about, clasping my hands to my mouth as my eyes fall upon the two siblings.

Their matted, blond braids, almost shaking with excitement as they beam at me. I launch myself at them before Tyreese finishes, wrapping my arms around their shoulders and pulling them into a messy bear hug, gasping into their shoulders from the pain. But I ignore it because the pain is worth their embrace.

"Oof!" Lizzie grunts a giggle and hugs me back with her sister.

"You're alive!" I cough and cry and laugh and sob all at the same time. Terrified, relieved, mortified, traumatised, overjoyed... so overwhelmed that I don't know what emotion to react with first.

Finally I pull away, sobbing like an idiot as I look at the two of them.

"Y-y-you've gr-grown."

I hiccup, saying the first thing I think of even though I saw them only 5 days ago. I wheeze a little, so Mika hands me my inhaler which was clasped in her little hand.

"Thanks," I say and then take a puff.

They both grin at me.

"Oliver, you're okay!" Mika exclaims, watching excitedly as I stuff my inhaler back into my pocket.

I nod, not sure I mean it as I wipe another wave of tears.

"We thought you were gonna die for sure! But Carol and Tyreese saved you," Lizzie smiles, glancing excitedly behind me.

My expression drops, or widens, I'm not exactly sure which, and my mind begins to reel with a thousand questions that all fight to be asked first. But only one question sticks out the most, did I hear Lizzie correctly just then? Did she say Carol? But the throbbing returns to my temple as my mind spins for an explanation, well, it gets worse at least, because the pain seems to just always be there now-a-days. So I wince and turn away a little.

But that is when I see her...

The pain disappears as a wave of adrenaline and relief swallows me up whole.

"Carol!"

I cry, saying her real name out loud for the first time. But I need to make sure I am not hallucinating.

"Oh my go-" only, I don't finish, because that's when I slap my hands to my mouth to stop my sob as I see the baby in her arms.

Judith.

I am almost sure that I am dead now. But the constant throb through my whole body reminds me that I can't be.

Slowly, as if I am making sure that the two souls don't disappear before my eyes, I move closer and reach out to them, my breath hitching and my heart racing against my chest.

Carol's brow arches and she pulls me into a tight hug and I wrap my arms around her, holding her tightly. I hear the beautiful sound of crying as Judith wakes from the pressure covering her. I never thought I would be so overjoyed to hear a baby cry. But, it's not the crying I'm happy about though. It's just that she really is crying, because that proves that she is real.

That proves that she is alive.

I lean away slightly to let Judith breath, and in my overwhelming joy and relief, I raise my hand to the back of Carol's neck, pressing my forehead to hers as tears roll down our faces.

"I thought you were dead. I thought a-all of you w-were," I sob.

She hiccups and smiles at me. "I know. I'm so glad you're okay."

I nod, too overwhelmed to reply, but I don't need to, Carol understands without me needing to explain how grateful I am to be with them again. She leans up a little.

"Here," she says quietly, motioning me to hold Judith. I sit back, wiping my face and Carol hands the child over to me.

I hold her tiny, delicate form in my arms and my hands shake, afraid that I will drop her. But I keep hold of Judith, hugging her to me and stroking her fine hair away from her forehead until she stops crying and begins to settle into me. _"It's not rocket science, doofus,"_ Carl said once, his relaxed, beloved voice floating in my mind on a memory. But it hurts to hear him. It hurts to hold his sister when we were so sure she had died. It hurts that he missed her so much, and it's me that finds her.

I begin crying again.

My tears drip onto the innocent child's cheek and I wipe it away for her with shaking hands. "S-sorry, Judy."

She stares at me, her pure and beautiful baby orbs staring right at into my eyes, almost as if she understands my sorrow, silently comforting me with her honest and uncorrupted soul. My body begins racking with my crying, overcome with a terrible sadness for Carl and Rick and Michonne, knowing that they are all dead. The gun shot. The screaming. I know that Rick was found, and I know that Carl and Michonne would have gone back, oblivious, as they walked right into those men. Dying just like I would have. I should never have left. I should have stayed and tried to help, or died trying.

The guilt eats me up, until I can't bear it.

My crying becomes too intense, too hysterical, so Carol gently takes Judith from me and hands the confused child over to Tyreese, before wrapping her arms around my shoulders and hugging me again. Pressure builds in my mind, dread, sorrow, fear, guilt, too much for me to handle, so I just keep crying.

I can't stop.

I cry for hours, burying my face into my hands and the soil as Carol tries to comfort me. She and Tyreese try to find out why, but I cry harder when I try to tell them. I cry for so long that Carol is forced to let go of me and leave me to cry myself out alone. I cry until I am raw. I cry until I am more than empty, and my sobs become dry and hollow and gut wrenching. And eventually, the terrible exhaustion overtakes me and I finally fall unconscious. Giving into my own torture.

* * *

**Notes**

Just so ya'll know, Oliver was dreaming about Sophia and Terminus because he could overhear Lizzie and Carol's conversation.

Side note - I find it funny that Carol, Lizzie and Mika would have had to put up with both Oliver and Tyreese having bad dreams in that scene. XD

Also, don't worry about Carl. He won't be so sorry for himself and OOC in the next chapters, he's just really devastated at the moment, but he'll pull his finger out and bury his emotions soon, just like the Carl we all know and love and worry about.

The chapters to follow will be a lot shorter, 3,000 - 7,000 words instead of the odd 18,000 it's been lately haha. Hopefully it will be less of a strain to read for ya'll! X

Happy reading xx :)


	21. The Grove, Part 2: It Fucking Survived?

Re-edited: 05/05/2015

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**Eli** Thank you, amazingness! Love your support! SO MUCH!

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Light, it flickers over my closed eye lids, so I open them, staring at the morning sky. It's early, the sun only just sparkling it's pink and orange shine through the edge of the tree line, twinkling through as the leaves blow against the wind. Too bright and cheerful for my mood.

My arms ache as I lift them to scratch the sleep and dried tears fro my eyes, then sit up, shivering from the morning chill and wincing badly as my head spins. I fear I will hurl, but after a moment the nausea settles and I am able to focus on my aching body again.

I stretch my arms, suddenly gasping as my abdomen and spine throb. So I drop my hand and lift my top and shirt to see the torn flesh across my abdomen, feeling my face contort in hatred and sadness as tears threaten to spill, so I place my top back, drawing my knees up to my chest and ignoring the throb through my body as I hug my knees, boring my eyes into my worn, denim, grey jeans.

There is a light pressure on my shoulder, and I flinch, almost leaping away. But my eyes meet faint blue and green, recognising the oracles to belong to Lizzie immediately. My body relaxes a little, my sore arms pushing myself around a little to face her.

"Lizzie," I croak, wincing as my voice stings my sore airways.

"Morning." She smiles for a moment, before straightening her face and pushing her lips out into a sort of pucker, chewing the inside of them like she so often does. "Are ya still hurtin'?"

_Yes, Lizzie. I am hurting. In too many ways to comprehend or even begin to explain._ I just nod, choosing to stay quiet because I'm afraid even my voice again will hurt.

Lizzie spins around on her knees, reaching behind her to Carol and tapping her on her shoulder to wake her. The woman's eyes flicker open and she sits up to look at the Lizzie.

"What is it, sweetie?" she asks her, blinking away her sleepiness. Lizzie motions her head to me, her fondness for me causing her to innocently mimic my silence.

Carol looks at me, reaching forward to put her hand on my shoulder, but I recoil without meaning to, flinching away from her touch. Carol drops her arm, furrowing her brow in concern for my fearful behaviour. _**Oliver... Carol didn't do anything to you, nor will she ever do anything. You know that. **__Yeah... I know that. _I force myself to ease up, offering something I think is a smile to the two females. Carol smiles comfortingly.

"Oliver…" she begins, but hesitates, and I know she wants to ask what happened to me, but I give her no sign of confirmation that I want her to continue, hoping that she takes the hint. But she doesn't, or she ignores it maybe. "What happened t-"

But she finally stops when I look away from her, picking furiously at the soil by my knees. So Carol pauses, glancing worriedly at Lizzie before looking back to me and forcing a smile.

"How, uh, how's your head?" she changes the subject. I nod, leaving the dirt alone and looking at her.

"I'm not sure, Ma'am, it's been pretty sore," I answer, trusting my voice again as I see her gentle familiar expression.

Carol nods, grateful for my cooperation. "Okay… Your asthma attack settled after a few minutes of you being unconscious… and then Ty an' I had a look at your wounds while you were out. You finally woke up a couple hours later."

I can see that she is trying hard not to ask what happened to me.

"We cleaned your wounds as best we could. But the bandage on your temple was too dirty to reuse, and we don't have anything else," she says.

I am about to ask what happened to the bandage on my abdomen, but the horrible flashback of Dan ripping it off of my body violates my mind. I grimace and cough and wince at the same time. Carol watches me wearily, so I relax my face and speak before she asks anything else.

"You don't happen to have more inhalers on you do you? This is my last one," I say, patting my pocket.

Carol shakes her head.

"Sorry," she says. "But we'll find a drug store or somewhere soon, get you some more. But in the mean time, try to use as little as possible. You think you can do that?"

I nod, pausing a moment, wondering if I should ask what is nagging at the back of my mind.

"Ma'am... What happened to you?" I ask, chewing my lip. "After the run… you never came back with R-... Mr. Grimes."

I almost call him Rick... but I don't deserve to anymore.

Carol suddenly looks almost as uncomfortable as I did, but she relaxes her face again and lets the corners of her mouth curl slightly into a sympathetic smile. "Rick an' I found another car that day. I stayed behind to look for more supplies, while he went back with what we'd found. I got back later the next day... but... everything happened… it... I was too late. Everything was destroyed... you were all gone."

I suddenly perk up. "Your car. Is it around? We could use it to find ev-"

I wanted to say find everyone faster or something, but Carol shakes her head.

I furrow my brow. "What? Why?"

"I had to leave the car - ran out o' gas."

"How'd you find Mr Williams. and Lizzie and Mika?"

Carol shrugs slightly. "Ran into 'em in the woods a couple miles South from The Prison. A man, who got bit, told us to follow the tracks - that there's a sanctuary at the end of it. We saw some signs, so that's where we're headed."

"Termite... uh, Thermus?" I try to remember what Penelope had said to me in my nightmare. For some reason it's the first thing that pops into my head as Carol explains.

"Terminus," she corrects me. "Did you hear me and Lizzie last night?"

I nod. "I guess."

A pause.

"How long have you guys been following the tracks?"

"Few days… maybe more. I'm not sure. We were about to stop an' rest yesterday evenin' - before we saw you runnin' t'wards us. Mika thought you were a walker... I did too," Carol tries to joke, glancing to Lizzie.

But no one laughs.

Carol turns to me again, arching her brow. "Have you been taking anything for your wounds?"

I nod.

"Good," Carol sighs with relief, slapping her palms to her thighs and glancing at Lizzie. "Sweetie, you wanna help me find some tree sap for Oliver?"

Lizzie nods.

I grimace a little. "Why?"

Carol smiles at me as she stands up, brushing herself off. "It'll help fight any infection."

"Oh. Thanks."

With a grateful nod, the two head off across the tracks and up into the woods in front of me to search. To my right, Tyreese is curled up on the train track with Mika's small form huddled close behind him so that their spines are pressed together for warmth. Judith is wrapped in her travel sack under Mika's arm, and I shuffle over, suddenly itching to hold Judith again, overwhelmed with relief to see her alive. The movement makes me wince as I set myself next to Mika and then tap her shoulder, and she sways on her side, opening her eyes and looking up at me.

"Mornin', Oliver," she mumbles sleepily, her arm closing around Judith's tiny form a little more and pulling her closer.

"Um. Can I hold her – take her off your hands for a while?"

Mika nods, lifting her arm sleepily. "Here."

I lean over and gently lift the baby from the ground, cradling her in my arms as she mumbles sleepily to herself, so I sit back, gently rocking her to sleep again, and after a moment she settles and snuggles into the fabric of the blanket, her warmth spreading through it and somehow soothing the aching throb through my body. I can feel the lump in my throat but I force it to go away, swallowing hard as I watch the sleeping baby, protectively making sure I have a secure hold around her.

Tyreese begins mumbling in his sleep, waking Mika up again. She sits up and watches him worriedly, before turning to me.

"Should we wake 'im?"

My mind frifts to my nightmare last night and how terrified I was. "Yeah... Yeah, you should."

Mika purses her lips and nods, then turns to Tyreese and gently taps his shoulder. But his mumbling becomes worse, subconsciously startled by her.

"Mr. Williams?"

I try to get his attention, but he doesn't wake.

"Shake him a little," I suggest, motioning to him. Mika nods and does as I say, grabbing his shoulders and gently rocking him awake.

Tyreese suddenly sits bolt upright, gasping and wide eyed.

"Karen!?" he yelps, searching wildly around him. Until his gaze meets me and Mika and he forces his shaking body to relax.

"It's just us," Mika whispers shakily. "Are you okay? I'm sorry for waking you."

"It's all right, honey," Tyreese sighs. "Sorry. Jus' another bad dream," he mumbles, wiping the beads of sweat that run down his face and soak into his beanie hat. "Jus' another nightmare."

I lift my free hand from Judy and pat the top of my own head, amazed to find that throughout everything that I have been through my beanie is still perched on the top of my head, covering my matted, dirt and sweat coated hair beneath it.

_**Oh my god. It fucking survived!? Goddamn it. **__Shut up!_

A few moments pass in quiet. But it's not an awkward or uncomfortable silence. It's the kind of silence that you can have with people you care about. The kind of silence that you all just embrace and appreciate, using it to make the most of each others company where no voice is needed to keep things complacent.

Carol and Lizzie return. Carol hesitates to treat Tyreese first now that he is awake. But I can see that he has a fever and needs the care more than me right now, so I nod in encouragement for her to go ahead. She smiles gratefully and walks the few meters over to him and continues to treat his wound.

"Hurts right?" Carol asks him as the man struggles to hold back his wince.

"Oh yeah," Tyreese says, watching her spread the sap over his wound, furrowing his brow in concentration. "It hurts."

"This'll fight the infection. Might even bring down your fever," Carol comforts him.

There is a short pause as Carol wraps Tyreese's wound with the reused bandage he was wearing before. Mika sits a few meters to my left, picking at the weeds that stick out from the tracks, Lizzie pacing up and down a few steps away from her sister, keeping watch for us with her hand on the knife. I suddenly remember my own machete, and almost reach behind me to touch it. But I remember that both my sheath and my machete aren't on my back anymore, neither is it wedged between my belt and jeans.

My thumb runs over the part of the leather material over the left side of my hip, feeling the frayed slices from the missing blade that has collected there on the belt as it's the place I'd repeatedly pulled and slid my weapon to and from over the last year and a half. But I realise that the belt is only just holding around my waist, with less than a centimetre of leather holding the sliced material together. I unbuckle the belt and pull it off, dropping it on the tracks beside me. I don't really need the belt anyway, it was only there to hold my machete. But Len 'claimed' it. So I won't be getting it back again.

"What d'ya think... three days out? Four days?" Tyreese asks Carol.

"We haven't seen any of those maps at the crossings... so, I'm not sure."

"Until Terminus?" I ask.

Tyreese leans back slightly to look at me behind Carol. "Yeah."

"Uh, well. It's been six days since the Prison. If that helps," I give my input, my useless obsession with date and time getting the better of me. Carol glances at me, smiling slightly.

"Yeah, I should think about four days left then... hm?" she regards Tyreese.

Tyreese agrees with a nod as Carol finishes bandaging him up. They begin talking about the girls, so I tug at my beanie a little and focus on Judith, not wanting to eves-drop.

"Is she hungry?" Mika asks me.

"She will be when she wakes up, but for now she should be all right," I answer, gently rocking the sleeping baby in my arms.

Carol stands from the track.

"Jus' getting some more sap for you," she says to me, wiping her knife clean for me and heading back towards the tree on the bank ahead of us.

I nod in thanks, watching as she harvests the natural remedy, bobbing Judith in my arms, comforted by the quiet sound of her breathing. I'd call it snoring, but it's too delicate and adorable to have such a name, it's more like a purr really. Regardless, it seems to be the only thing that can make the corner of my mouth curl a little, not a real smile, but close.

Carol returns holding out her knife to me and I see the sticky brown syrup spread along the blade. She kneels down, twisting the blade so that the sap doesn't drip off. "Lean forward, please?"

I carefully hand Judith over to Lizzie, who cradles the infant in her arms and sits beside me as Mika goes to keep watch. I do as Carol said, tilting my head and leaning towards her. Carol gently wipes the sap over my cut temple and I flinch from the sharp sting.

"Agh," I gasp.

Carol flinches too.

"Sorry. But it'll help get rid of the last traces of your infection - keep the swelling down too," she says gently, finishing up. "Okay, now just leave it like that. It's the best we've got."

I lean up again, pursing my lips in thanks and Carol motions to my stomach.

"Can you lift your shirt?" she asks.

I hesitate, not wanting her to see the horrible injuries. But I realise that Carol saw my wounds last night already, so I nod and pull the hem of my shirt and top up to my chest. I don't look, seeing it once already is enough. But Lizzie gasps quietly as she stares wildly at my torn skin. I'm guessing that she didn't see Carol or Tyreese looking me over last night and that this is the first time she has seen my wounds.

"Lizzie. Don't look. Go and sit with Mika," Carol commands, thinking that Lizzie is disturbed. But in truth, she looks more fascinated than anything.

"But..." Lizzie protests, tilting her head to get a better look at my wound. "I wanna see... I... I-I can help."

But Carol shoots her a look.

"Lizzie," she warns, in that intimidating, yet gentle motherly tone that I recognise from Story Time, when some of the kids would goof around while she taught or read. "You don't wanna see this."

"_Alright,_" Lizzie relents, resisting the temptation to roll her eyes and standing up, before rather reluctantly going to sit nearer her sister. Carol looks back to me, smiling dismissively towards Lizzie's behaviour. She reaches forward to my abdomen.

"Okay. This is gonna hurt a little more than your head since it's an open gash," she says.

I grimace, silently cursing Dan for tearing it open again, as the wound was healing well before he... 'claimed' me.

"I mean, _cut..._ it's not really that bad," she tries to take back her previous statement to comfort me, pulling me from my intrusive thoughts.

I cock an eyebrow at her, giving her an 'I don't need your pity' look, because I don't want her comfort right now, just her hospitalization.

Carol purses her lips empathetically. "Sorry. I know you're not a child... You ready?"

"Yeah," I grit my teeth and nod. "Let's get it over with."

Carol spreads the sap over my wound and I hiss through my teeth, but force myself to stay still as she treats it.

"There," she mumbles, before helping to pull my clothing back over it, and I wince as the fabric sticks to the sap, tugging at it whenever I move. "I know it's uncomfortable. But it'll have to do until we find somewhere with bandages – maybe a store, or house."

"I'll be fine," I say, hoping that what I say is true. "Thank you."

* * *

"Does Tom Sawyer have a happy ending?" Mika chirps. "We never got to finish it."

"Well..."

Carol begins, turning to Mika as we all walk down the train tracks. I hold Lizzie's hand. She was holding Mika's, but when the Younger Samuel Sister left to talk to Carol, Lizzie almost immediately went for my hand, craving that little bit of comfort from someone. I don't blame her, this has all got to be so tough on a child.

"Tom an' Huck... they, uh, stop Injun Jones an' his partner an' wind up getting all his gold."

"So they wind up rich?!" Mika grins, impressed.

"Mm hmm," Carol confirms, thumbing the straps of the baby carrier that Judith is still comfortably wedged inside of, "and The Widow Douglas adopts Huck."

"Like you adopted us?" Mika says proudly.

Carol glances at her, grinning.

"Yeah," she says, "jus' like The Widow Douglas."

"And I'm Huck Finn."

"I think you're more like, Tom Sawyer," Lizzie disagrees, smiling at her sister.

Mika looks back at Lizzie as we walk. "Yeah. You're right. You're not even grossed out by dead rabbits."

I furrow my brow, and notice Lizzie shoot her little sister a glare, before glancing at me nervously. Asking what Mika was talking about sticks to the tip of my tongue, but Lizzie smiles at me and throws her head to one side to flick her hair out of her eyes, before looking away and continuing walking, slightly tightening her grasp on my hand to make me keep walking. I take the hint, and keep my mouth shut. It's probably nothing. I mean, it'd be kind of useless to be disturbed by dead things now anyway, so not being 'grossed out' by death is probably useful.

"Forgot you used to read to 'em," Tyreese says.

Carol glances back at him briefly. "I did."

I am about to thank Carol for her story time lessons, as they have pretty much saved my life over the last week; shooting the walkers that breeched the fences, knowing if the grapes in the suburb were edible for me and Carl. But that thought alone sends me into saddened silence. I push the memories out of my mind before they make me break more than I already have, focusing on counting along the wooden beams as I walk, ignoring the pain deep in my chest, and everywhere else on my body.

* * *

**Notes**

Don't forget to review, follow and favourite xxx thanks!

Happy reading xx :_)_


	22. The Grove, Part 3: The Grove

Re-edited: 05/05/2015

* * *

**Eli-XD-O **Thank you, and btw, I checked you profile and I love your stories! You better be updating The Aftermath soon!

**mks 12 98 **Haha, he is a strange character, Oliver De Luca. His beanie and pudding are always in his mind somewhere haha

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

We came across a Terminus sign a few miles back, we should be about four days away now. But the slogan. It's stuck in my head for some reason. It's almost familiar. For miles, I've been racking my frazzled mind for where I have heard it before, searching through long neglected, unlabelled files, until my feet root to the tracks, a sharp breath is drawn into my lungs without me meaning it to.

Mika and Lizzie we're holding my hands, both jolting to a stop and almost dawdling into each other from their auto-piloted amble.

It's become apparent to me that the two sisters have quickly taken to me like an older sibling. We were always close at the Prison (after a few weeks of me awkwardly just trying to settling into the place). Story Time and copious amounts of soccer and dodge ball had solidified our friendship, though, I always used to think of their friendship, especially with Mika, as sticky. Because you only had to be nice to them for them to like you, like puppies. Often they would want to tag along with odd things that I would rather do alone, like go to the library or cleaning chores in the common room or hallways, and I would come up with an excuse to avoid them. But now? It's kind of me clinging to them. Their hands are warm and delicate and light, comforting, something to ground me. Something to hold on to without having to think about it, like their two anchors, preventing me from drifting off into my own intrusive thoughts. Distracting me.

Their just... there.

Carol has Judith strapped to her back in her baby carrier.

"What is it?" Mika asks after only a second, frowning in confusion at my sudden refusal to move.

"I've heard the Terminus slogan before," I get out. Both Tyreese and Carol stop and look at me in confusion, so I elaborate. "Back at the Prison. I heard it on a radio. But it had bad signal so I didn't recognise it right away. 'Sanctuary for all. Community for all. Those who arrive, survive. Terminus'... but that was ages ago... almost three months, I was with-"

I stop, unable to say his name. But Tyreese speaks anyway.

"No, I heard it too," he says. "Only last week on the medical run."

"How do we know that it's not been overrun?"

"Well, we don't know for sure. But if they were broadcasting only last week they have electricity... they must've been doing okay for themselves at the time, right?" Carol says optimistically. I shake my head slightly.

"I can't say... it was on a loop. The woman's voice said the same things in the same tone. Either it was a record playing or she is just really good at her job," I try to joke, but no one is really in a joking mood right now, including me.

Carol shrugs, offering a comforting smile.

"It's all we have."

* * *

Sound.

Around us, along the tracks, the sounds we hear are the chirping of birds and ticking of insects, I would have said that it is quiet in another life, but now it is almost deafening. The sun shine flickers through the leaves in the trees beside the track and I squint from the flashing beam. It's warm, despite it being the middle of Winter. Good old Georgian weather, ay? It's cold at night though, so pretty soon we might get snow, eventually, maybe. _**Oliver, that's no longer good news to us though. **__Oh, right.__** Yeah. **__The cold is deadly now, huh?__** Yeah... it is.**_

My thoughts cut off however as I smell something like burning barbecue, or burning meat, no, burning people. I grimace and I see that both Mika and Lizzie have done the same, too.

"D'you smell that?" Carol asks, concerned.

"Burning?" I kind of ask, hoping that I am wrong as I turn around a little to look and grateful that such a movement doesn't hurt as much as I thought it would.

"Yeah," Tyreese looks towards the top of the tree line, searching for the smoke. "There's a fire somewhere."

"Must be a big one," Carol says, turning to search on a wider spectrum. "It isn't anywhere around here."

I look too, finding no visible smoke or hearing any crackling of a fire anywhere.

"Do... do you think it was made by anyone we know?" I almost don't ask, but my curiosity gets the better of me.

Carol gives me a doubtful look. "If it is they wouldn't have stuck around to wait for walkers to show up."

I nod solemnly.

"We should stop here," Carol slows and motions towards the tree line. "We need to find more water."

"I can do it," Tyreese tries, but even I can see that he is panting from exhaustion even though we have barely been walking for three hours, which isn't all that much given the circumstances.

"No," Carol insists. "You need to rest your arm." She sees me as I let go of the girls hands, about to offer to help her. "You too, Oliver. Your wounds aren't gonna heal lugging more weight around than you need to. Mika will help me."

Both sisters look around, surprised that Carol would choose Mika instead of Lizzie since we all can guess that Lizzie is stronger. But no one argues with the woman.

Ignoring my annoyance at myself for how useless I am, we head off the tracks a little, leaving our belongings on the ground in a neat pile beside the iron beams. I take a seat on a tree log beside Lizzie as Carol hands Judith to me. Tyreese helps unpack a few containers for Mika and Carol, before coming and setting himself on the log to my right.

"See you in a little while," Carol says. "If we get separated we'll meet at the next crossing or bridge. All right?"

We all nod, and watch Carol and Mika leave.

We sit in silence for a long moment and Lizzie begins swaying her legs in slow motion, humming a made up tune into her palms which she has spread across her face as she rests it in them. She's bored.

"You wanna play eye spy?" I offer, sensing that she is desperate for some kind of mental stimulation other than what waiting has to offer. She stops swaying and looks at me.

"Yeah," she nods happily, dropping her hands.

"Okay. You go first," I nudge her knee with mine, glancing at Tyreese as he smiles at us. For some reason, Lizzie closes her eyes though.

"I spy..." She says, opening her eyes again and searching around her, looking disappointed when she doesn't see what she is looking for. "Trees and weeds."

I think I will burst out laughing, but my smile still evades my lips and all that comes out is a quiet breath. Lizzie glances back at me, smirking at my befuddled reaction. "What?"

"Uh... Lizzie. That's not how you play," I break to her gently.

"Oh," she grimaces in confusion. "Then how?"

"Well, I always played it by picking the first letter of what I'd spied... you know? 'S' for 'sky' or whatev-"

But I stop my sentence as I see something moving a few hundred yards behind Lizzie. I tilt my head to look beyond her and my eyes widen when I make out the clumsy figure of a walker, dawdling our way. It had been following us I presume - smelling our scent, or maybe hearing our hushed talking along the tracks.

"Walker."

As soon as I say it, the tension intensifies and Tyreese and Lizzie are both sent of red alert, looking in the direction that I motion with my head, holding Judith closer to me. Tyreese stands up and goes to the track. I almost follow, but I realise I can't do that while I have Judith. Too dangerous. Lizzie notices my hesitance and tries to follow Tyreese too, but I grab her arm gently and stop her, pulling her to sit back down.

"It's okay. Ty's got it," I say. Tyreese had told me a few miles back that I could call him by his first name. I had guessed at some point he would.

"You stay here," Tyreese says to her, exchanging a glance of the same message to me, before heading off to go deal with our unwelcomed follower.

Lizzie purses her lips worriedly, twitching in her seat, her agitation building.

"He'll be okay. Promise," I try to comfort her. "It's only the one."

But Lizzie shakes her head frantically.

"He's got it, I swe-"

"No. It's not that," she interrupts me, glancing desperately at Tyreese and then back to me again. "He's..."

"What's wrong then?" I ask, completely confused by what is bothering her if it isn't Tyreese's safety.

But Lizzie is unable to help herself.

She stands up before I can stop her, dodging my grab and jogging after Tyreese, I rush to my feet, and as quickly as I can, go after her, holding Judith to my chest.

"Lizzie, stop!" I bark quietly after her, only for her to ignore me. "_Shit._"

Judith begins to fuss, confused by such fast movements so suddenly, but I coo to her, feeling like an idiot as I pick her up a little better on my chest.

"Lizzie!" I hiss again, biting back more curses. "Lizzie, stop a minute."

But Lizzie is with Tyreese already now.

"Tyreese!"

Tyreese stops just as he is about to swing his hammer at the walker's skull, turning to look at the interrupting child and dropping his weapon to his side. I see the walker. It's fallen into a rabbit hole made in the middle of the track. By the looks, it's taken a nasty tumble, crushing its leg between the iron and wood in it's furious attempts to free itself. It's radius bone has snapped and is sticking out at an unnatural angle, and it growls at us, feral-looking and as awful as walkers come.

I grimace and look at Tyreese again. "I'm sorry. I... I didn't mean for..."

I try to apologise for letting Lizzie run off like she did, but she interrupts me before I figure out how to put my apology into a sentence.

"Sometimes we have to kill them. I know that. But sometimes we don't."

Tyreese and I stare for a long time, glancing to and from the walker and Lizzie. _It's rabid. It's dead. Why is she protecting it? __**At least she actually still cares.**__ I think her priorities of things to care about are a little jumbled. __**Maybe not though. I mean, they were people once you know.**__ Yeah – once. Not any more._

Eventually, Tyreese softens his face and takes Lizzie's shoulder.

"C'mon, Lizzie," he mumbles, ignoring the growling of the walker stuck in the wooden planks of the tracks and leading the way back to our things.

Lizzie smiles, proud of herself for convincing him to leave the walker alone. She takes my hand, while I try to coo Judith to get her to settle again as she's been spooked a little from the hissing from both me and the walker. But still, she is pretty undeterred by it. I guess she has to be to survive this world now though.

We get back to our pile of things, only this time I stay stood up, handing Judith to Lizzie as she sits down on the log, before stepping towards the track to keep watch. With that walker only a few hundred yards away, I don't think any type of exhaustion would get me to sit down right now.

So I watch the tracks both ways, but my eyes trail back to the walker over and over again, expecting it to have managed to escape and run for our us every time. But it stays where it is, and soon, I hear Carol and Mika returning.

They sound excited about something.

Suddenly, Mika crashes through the brush to us, almost falling into Tyreese's arms with Carol right behind, although a little more composed. I startle, thinking that they are being chased and rushing over to them, readying myself for a herd of walkers to stampede towards us, feeling helpless when I realise that I have no weapon to defend us with.

"Calm down, Mika. It's not goin' anywhere," Carol says.

"What? What's not going anywhere?"

"We found a grave!" Mika exclaims.

My eye brows furrow into a disturbed frown, unbearably confused now. "What?"

"No, a _Grove._ Not grave," Carol corrects the child. "Mika, you gotta listen a little closer."

"Oh, right..." I sigh with relief, "jesus, I thought..." but I don't really need to say what I thought, so I stop my sentence and change it, "um, where is it?"

Carol motions back into the woods, but Mika takes the words from her mouth. "Back there. A few minutes off the track. It's got a fence an' a big cottage an' a pond an' a well an' a shack an' a-"

"All right, Mika."

Carol calms the hyperventilating child, placing a hand on her little shoulder to get her to settle. I almost laugh, but again, it doesn't come out and my smile doesn't want to form. I wonder for a moment if I will ever laugh again. But I realise that it isn't important right now, so I focus on Carol again.

"The water? From the well and pond... is it okay to drink?"

"Think so. If we boil it. It should be fine," she answers, taking Judith from Lizzie and fitting the baby into her travel sack as we all gather out belongings.

"Well, c'mon. Lets go!" Mika insists impatiently.

Carol chuckles, carefully placing Judith on her back before taking Mika's hand and following the child as she excitedly leads us to this 'Grove' she is so excited about.

Along the way, Carol suddenly shushes us all. I freeze, thinking that she has heard a walker, or those Claimers have somehow found us and are waiting beyond the brush to grab us and murder us. My heart pounds and blood rushes through my ears in time with my racing heart beat.

But it's a deer.

It gracefully steps out of the small bit of cover behind a tree and stops right in front of us. Just a few steps and I could touch its nose. But we all stay where we are. Tyreese or Carol could shoot it for food, but I know that they won't. There is something about this moment. Almost like it's more of a welcome. I'm not sure. But whatever it is it's not something to be destroyed.

The fallen, orange and brown leaves roll across the earth in the breeze as the deer watches us, it's big black eyes examining each of our flustered faces. But we don't growl or limp or bite, so eventually, the deer realises we aren't a threat and continues chewing the grass it had in its mouth, turning away from us and continuing into the woods.

I think of the deer Carl saw when he got shot. How peaceful he felt and how beautiful he thought it was. I wonder for a moment if he had sent it, the deer I mean. Telling me that everything will be all right soon and there is still hope left in the world. But I shake my head clear of such a dumb and unrealistic cliché and I quickly wipe my eyes dry before anyone notices me tearing up, grimacing at my own patheticness.

"C'mon," I say nonchalantly and glad that my voice didn't crack, gently squeezing Lizzie's hand and motioning for us to move on.

A moment later, we come to a clearing. I only think it is a small one at first, but as we walk the clearing seems to grow. A small shack appears, and then a pond, and then, as if it had grown from the very soil itself, sprouting from the earth and growing beautiful and perfect like a blooming flower, a house emerges from the tree cover.

My mouth falls open.

"Oh, whoa..."

It's the Grove, and it's perfect, as if it was made just for us.

"What'd'ya think?" Carol gestures to the property proudly, smiling.

"It's perfect."

"What are these?" Mika asks a moment later, stopping and crouching down to grab some kind of nut from the floor, and taking another look around, I notice that the strange nuts are everywhere.

"Pecans?" I remember the nuts from Carol's lessons.

"Yep," Carol informs, smiling at my intrigue as well as Mika's.

"Ooh! I love pecans!" Mika giggles, collecting a handful.

"You know maybe we could catch our breath here for a while?" Carol proposes, opening the make shift fence for us to enter the main lot.

"We're still going to Terminus, right?" Lizzie asks the question I was about to ask. Carol glances at her and nods yes.

"Jus' stay a day or two," she says. "There's a well full o' water... uh... well, the fences, they're not big but they're something. We saw a deer - they eat pecans. We should be able to kill one to eat."

"We can eat these too, right?" Mika asks innocently, motioning to the pecans in her hand. Her stomach thinking for her in that innocent, hungry child way that is either adorable or saddening, maybe a mixture of the two.

"You could eat your fill an 'en sell 'em," Tyreese jokes, sharing her and all of our hunger.

"I'll be the first customer," I glance at Mika, unable to help myself from getting in on the banter, "but I'm not paying more than a few bucks."

Mika chuckles at me, nudging my arm with her pecan-less hand. "A buck fifty."

I let myself smile a little, and it feels good on my cheeks and welcoming to my curving lips.

"All right," I agree. "Deal."

"Look!"

Mine and everyone else's smile drops at Lizzie's yell and we spin around to look at what she has seen. Smoke. Dark smoke, rising up to the sky from a few miles away by the looks of it.

"Bet that's what we were smelling," Carol examines the narrow, gloomy cloud. "Looks far enough away."

"Wonder how it started," Mika says, squinting as she stares at it.

"Maybe lightnin'... maybe a camp fire" Tyreese says. He turns and motions to the fence we had just entered the lot through. "I can patch that fence."

"Probably where the deer're comin' from," Carl protests, not wanting to lose any that wander into the Grove, and nwalking backwards to talk to us. "We should leave it, an' just play it really safe in here."

I hesitate to go to the house, suddenly feeling like we should go back to the tracks and keep going. But Lizzie takes my hand, snapping the sense back into me. I hold my other hand out for Mika and she takes it gladly.

"It'll be good to spend the next few days here. Let you both heal again?"

"Yeah," Tyreese agrees. "Sounds good to me."

Carol looks at me for my input, and I almost say yes without thinking about it. But that hesitation is still nagging at the back of my head, telling me to stay on the track, that they're not far ahead, just a day or so more and we could catch up with them and be with them again, and I can be with him again. But I ignore it. Because it's stupid and untrue. It's wishful thinking, and wishful thinking is useless and will only get us killed.

"Yes, ma'am," I answer Carol. "Sounds like a good idea."

* * *

**Notes**

Again, no Carl? I'm so sorry, but he'll be back soon. I promise! And I'm sorry if I am being totally obnoxious by leaving the guy you all are reading this because of, out of the story for so long, I know it is incredibly rude of me. But he will be back soon, I swear x

Hope ya'll enjoyed this chapter. Please leave a little review on your way out to tell me of your thoughts :) helps me a lot! :D

Favourite part(s)?

Worst part(s)?

Helpful criticism is truly appreciated :D

Preview: I'm sorry, but Carl won't be back. But he will be in the chapter after! Please don't give up on Oliver yet :) In the next chappy, we will see how Oliver deals with the next few scenes of the episode. Lizzie's troubles are beginning to get a little more noticeable, and Oliver has some explaining to do. But a broken heart, trauma, guilt and abuse is never easy to talk about, and is just made 100 times worse in the apocalypse...

Happy reading xx :)


	23. The Grove, Part 4: No

Re-edited: 11/05/2015

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**Eli** THANK YOU SO MUCH! You make me blush so hard when I read your comments! Just a quick question, are you and Eli-XD-O the same person? Eli-XD-O put -Eli at the end of their review and I assumed they meant they were you. But they said that in chapter 22 and then you reviewed chapter 20 after that. Uhm, sorry, I'm a technophobe and this stuff confuses me xx :D

**mks 12 98** yes it is. Though, the part I think you are talking about is not for a few more chapters. It was such a controversial episode though wasn't it? There was a for and against for every character, even Lizzie, I mean, she was only doing what she thought was right. It was so devastating.

**Guest** Everyone doesn't make poor Carl gay, silly :) you've just happened across a story that has (well, technically, in my story, Carl is Oliver-sexual) XD sorry if you don't enjoy the story, but in my opinion, it's not any different from straight relationships :)

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**"Flesh and Bone" by Keaton Henson**

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**Oliver's POV**

Tyreese knocks on the door and he and Carol wait on the porch for a moment. I stand at the bottom of the steps with Judith in my arms, she's woken up and will be wanting some formula soon. But luckily, living in the apocalypse has made her a pretty patient child, so she won't fuss for a while yet.

Mika and Lizzie are sat on some garden chairs; the fancy kind that people would have used to have tea parties in movies, with intricate patterns carved into the seats.

"If there's one in there it's not moving, watch," Carol says quietly, looking into the house through the screen door. "Let's just stay close, go slow, room to room."

Judith begins to fidget a little, so I rock her in my arms and quietly shush her to settle. Which she does easily, simply nuzzling her face into my shoulder again.

"Girls, you sit tight. You don't come in, until we come out, no matter what, you, hear," Carol says clearly to Mika and Lizzie.

"Okay," The Samuel Sisters say in unison.

Carol glances at me and I nod, understanding that she wants the same from me, too.

"Oliver's got Judith. Girls, take out your guns," she says. And they both pull out their weapons, holding them loosely in their small hands.

"Ma'am," I say, standing up a little more so that I'm not leant on the railing anymore.

"Yeah?"

"I was wondering if I could have a gun, too?"

She thinks for a moment, chewing her lower lip. "Oliver. Ty and I've had this whole time to teach Mika and Lizzie how to use firearms, but you told me in class that you'd never used one before. It's more than just putting 'em together and pullin' the trigger."

"I know, ma'am. "I remember that Carol doesn't know about when I helped defend the Prison the evening she never came back from her run with Rick. "But I've had a little practice," I tell her truthfully. She cocks an eyebrow doubtfully so I continue. "There was a breach, the evening Mr. Grimes. came back from your run. Walkers got into The Prison and we had to fight them off. Um, and Carl was teaching me how to put his colt together and how to load it up, day before last."

I say it somehow keeping my voice free of any emotion, as if I am blocking it out or something. Blocking him out. But I pause as all four of their expressions drop.

"Wh-what?" I whisper in alarm, my voice failing on me finally as I realise that I have just told them all something of what I have been doing since the fall of the Prison. Carol steps towards me to the edge of the porch.

"Y-you were with Carl?" Her voice cracks. "You got out..." she asks, trying hard to keep the sudden desperation out of her voice, "together?"

I stare at her for a long time, feeling my sorrow and guilt rise in my chest, before finally answering her. "Yeah," I mutter, nodding carefully as if I'm trying to balance the whole world on the top of my head. I want to tell her more, that I escaped with Rick too, and that Michonne found the three of us a few days later, and that the next day, those men came and. . .

But I can't.

I can't say it.

Carol's breath catches. "Wh-what... wh-where-"

But tears begin spilling from my eyes and I have to look away. "Please?" I beg, wiping my eyes on my shoulder as I keep hold of Judith. "Ma'am, please?"

I listen as Carol composes herself again, taking deep breaths of my own as well. "Uh, s-sorry. Uh, yeah. Okay. Ty, could Oliver use your Glock?" she asks him gently, humane enough not to press on the sensitive subject I am not ready to talk about yet.

"Yeah. I got my rifle," he says. "Never was one for pistols."

I look back at them, seeing Tyreese forcing the shock from his face as he pulls out his gun and hands it to Carol. I think of all the times that Sasha used to make fun of Tyreese's poor shooting skills.

"Thanks, Ty," I say, making sure my voice doesn't shake as I sniff a little, taking the gun as Carol hands it to me. I feel the weight of the pistol as I bob my hand a little, before stuffing it into the back of my jeans and taking hold of Judith properly again.

"Lizzie, Mika. You're gonna need to stay an' watch," Carol finishes, heading into the house through the creaky door.

Tyreese glances at me, nodding. I nod back, silently telling him we'll be okay. He looks at Mika and Lizzie, pursing his lips into a reassuring smile for them.

"Stay strong, little ladies."

The man follows Carol inside of the house and I take a seat at the bottom of the stairs, closing my eyes and waiting for the tears to stop threatening to fall. My sorrow persists and my throat aches, begging to cry until I am unconscious again. But I don't let it. I can't let it. Not here.

"Hurt's doesn't it?" Lizzie says a moment later, watching me as I try to calm myself.

I look at her, gulping the lump from my throat. "What?" I croak curiously, ignoring my sadness.

"It hurts... seeing someone you love die," she says quietly. "We saw our Mom die. An' our Dad, too."

"I didn't see him die," I say without hesitation.

"So?" Lizzie shrugs dismissively. "He's still dead... Just like Rick's dead. An' Maggie's dead. An' Glenn. Daryl. Michonne. Hershel. Sasha. Beth... everyone's dead. And everyone _will_ die... We know it hurts."

"You don't know."

It was harsher than I meant it to be, furrowing my brow in anger. How could she possibly know? I didn't just lose my family and friends. I lost the boy I loved, truly loved with everything in me. Lizzie hasn't the first clue of how unbearably lost I feel.

Lizzie doesn't say anything, she just arches her brow at me, as if she feels sorry for me, or maybe she's just confused. I look away, irritated by how small I feel under her gaze but knowing she doesn't deserve my foul temper.

"Lizzie, I'm sorry. I just, really, don't wanna talk about that," I mutter.

Lizzie gives a fraction of a nod, before looking at the floor. A long moment passes and I become aware of how distant she suddenly looks.

"Lizzie?" I whisper, but she doesn't respond. _**I think she's worried about Carol and Tyreese. **__Yeah, I think so, too... __**Oliver, and what are you going to do about it?**__ What...? I-I don't know. __**Again, your consoling skills are appalling! Go and comfort her! **__Oh... right..._

I walk over to the two girls, crouching down in front to The Eldest Samuel Sister to look at them both. "Don't worry. They're gonna be fine. They wont die, not like... uh, ev-everyone else. Okay?" I say, feeling like an idiot for how bad at this kind of thing I am.

Still looking away, Lizzie shakes her head. "It's not that."

I lean back, balancing on the balls of my feet as I keep Judith held to my chest, confused as I try to think of something else to say to console her, or, I don't know, something to see her a little happier and less... catatonic.

"Is it that there was a baby?"

At Mika's weak voice, I follow her gaze and notice the graveyard out in the back yard. There's a small grave, with a pair of tiny golden coloured shoes hung up on the home-made cross. No doubt the child would have died after the outbreak, I guess the parents left, or maybe Carol and Tyreese will find them in there as walkers.

"No," Lizzie replies, waiting a long moment to continue. I look back to the girl, furrowing my brow at Lizzie's reply. _What is she upset by then?_ But as if she knew what I was thinking, she answers my unasked question. "They're gonna find one in there, and they're going to-"

"Stop it! They aren't people!"

I startle at Mika's sudden outburst and she glances at me apologetically, sinking into her seat a little, scolding herself for her short temper, and I just stare at them both in utter confusion.

"But you're wrong. All of you," Lizzie glances at me, her eyes vacant and dazed, making my expression tense in worry for her.

"Lizzie," I try, a little more gently than Mika. "They aren't people anymore."

"No! They're not! They're just dead!" Mika shouts, frustrated by her sister and again, unable to hold in her anger. "Oliver, tell her! She doesn't understand! She's so stupid! Lizzie, they're not people! They're just dead!"

I am about to stop Mika, shush her before she ends up lashing out on her sister or worse. But I am interrupted by a growl. I didn't hear the side door creak as it was pushed open. I didn't react quick enough to pull out my gun and shoot.

"Ah!"

Lizzie gasps, as she and Mika leap away from the walker, while I startle backwards too, trying my hardest not to drop Judith and pull out my gun at the same time. The walker limps for us, walking right into the white banister, peeling the paint away as it shoves its body against it. But it rolls over the banister, slamming into the floor below with a crunch and a thud.

"Shit!" I hiss through my teeth, my eyes wide as I try to hold Judith and get out my gun and stop myself from falling flat on the floor at the same time with not enough hands.

Judith begins screaming in my arms, startled by my jolting and ungraceful movements. I try to calm her, still attempting to pull the damned gun out of my jeans. But it's difficult to balance myself and a baby with no free hands.

"Mika! Lizzie! Shoot it!" I bark desperately as I struggle to bring myself to my feet, clutching a wailing Judith to my chest.

I hear the first gunshot, but it misses.

"STOP! STOP!" Lizzie screams frantically.

I grab my gun, aiming it at the walker. But for a split second, out of the corner of my eye, I think I see Lizzie aim her gun at me, but I don't look at her, dismissing the unrealistic delusion as I pull the trigger.

The walker slumps to the floor but I only got it in the shoulder, so a moment later, the thing pulls itself up again and makes a beeline for the closest objects to it with a heart beat, Judith and I.

"STOP!" Lizzie screeches, horrified as she clambers for her little sister. But Mika shoots again, and this time the bullet travels straight through the walker's skull and finally kills it.

The house door swings open with a loud creak and then a slam as it hits the wall behind it. Carol and Tyreese leap down the porch and over to us, panting as they take in the scene.

"Are you okay?" Carol asks us, grabbing under my arms and pulling me up. I let out a yelp, the pain shooting up my body as Carol puts pressure on my rib cage. But the memory of Dan sneering horribly at me as he towered over my shaking body seems to engulf me like the living dead plague, flashing through my vision and making me feel like I am about to hurl.

"Stop." I begin to shake and I struggle to keep hold of the terrified baby in my arms. "Stop... stop!" I whine desperately, pulling away from Carol's embrace and frantically blinking away my flash backs. "Please."

"Oliver, it's okay. It's jus' me," Carol tries to console me, "Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah," I lie, my spine convulsing and my arms shaking badly as I clutch hold of a still wailing Judith, her cries like knives cutting through my clouding mind. "We're okay," I manage to get out, though my voice cracks as my shaking increases.

"Here, give 'er to me?" Tyreese mutters, gesturing to Judith as he notices my instability.

I don't move, but as he steps closer I allow him to take Judith from me, refusing to look at either of them, fearing that Dan's face will leak into both of theirs if I do. So instead I step over to the porch, grabbing at the railing for support as I slump down on the stone steps, clutching around my middle and rocking back and forth to subdue the pain and the terrible memories.

_**Close contact with others seems to have become a trigger of the flashbacks. **__I hate it. I hate it!_

"Mika?" Carol says, staring worriedly at the traumatized child as she is still holding her weapon up to the dead walker, unable to relax her shaking arms. "Mika. Lower the gun," she says. I watch as Mika begins to loosen her arms and the gun falls along with them. "You did it. You saved 'em."

Lizzie begins crying, hysterically. Her body hunches and she stares down at the dead walker, mortified and devastated.

"Why're you upset Lizzie?" Carol asks. "Were you scared?"

Lizzie tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear and shakes her head, her body rigid and tense with horror. "No," she gulps.

"Then why're you crying?" Carol gets out, frustration cracking her voice.

"I don't wanna say," is all Lizzie responds with before rushing away to a garden bench, staring out at the Grove as she tries to calm herself.

Tyreese coos to Judith at the top of the stairs behind me, but the baby continues to wail, terrified after so much gunfire and screaming. Mika exchanges a glance with Carol, before going over to her sister and placing a hand on her pink and dirty grey striped shoulder to comfort her.

"Lizzie... I'm sorry I yelled at you," she apologises.

Carol glances at me and Tyreese, looking exhausted and desperate for some kind of explanation or closure, but neither I or Tyreese have any to offer her, or ourselves.

"Jus', look at the flowers like you're suppose to," Mika tells her big sister. They both gaze at the small gathering of wild flowers in the overgrown, part wild flower pot in front of them, and Mika rubs circles into Lizzie's back. "Count one, two, three. C'mon. Let's count together. Look at the pink ones over there, you see?" Mika says, as her vulnerable sister hangs off of every word. Dependent on her to calm her again. As though this happens all the time.

I take a puff from my inhaler as my airways begin to tighten from the stress and strain, listening as Mika and Lizzie count together.

"One. Two. Three... good... One. Two. Three."

* * *

Lizzie calmed down after a few minutes, she's been quiet, but I think we just need to give her a little time to adjust. It must be tough for her and Mika; going from the Prison to this... fatherless and vulnerable.

We'd harvested as may pecans as we could find from around the Grove, bringing them back to the little cottage. Tyreese has also been hauling water back from the Groves' well for Carol and I to boil on the stove with the kettle. We found almost twenty cans of peaches in the pantry, and we treated ourselves to a can each. There was only peaches though. Whoever lived here must have really liked them. I found two more Ventolin inhalers in the medical cupboard in the kitchen, for once glad that someone else had asthma like me. One inhaler is used already, maybe half empty by what it sounded like when I shook it, the other was brand new though, still in the box, so I should be good for at least two weeks, maybe more if I can reduce how much I take a little. I also found some more bandages, I left my temple without one and the cut on my lip from whatever cut me in the suburb house isn't bad enough for a bandage either. I have managed to successfully disinfect all my injuries and re-bandaged around my abdomen again, too.

The Grove has three bedrooms, and it was decided that I would sleep in with the girls in the adults room, Carol would sleep in the third bedroom with Judith, and Tyreese would have the spare room.

Just as the man is lighting the wood fire in the living room, I set Judith down on the couch, wrapping her up cosily into her blanket and letting her sleep her earlier troubles away. With the warm fire, at least those chilly nights won't affect us for now. _**Yeah... for now.**_ I ignore my doubt as I spot a jigsaw puzzle box under the couch and I carry it over to the table where Carol is sat.

"Wanna play?"

"Uh huh," Lizzie says. "In a minute. I'm just gonna go help sort the pecans."

She is still shaken after the trauma we had just experienced a few hours previously, going with Mika to the front porch to separate the good pecans from the bad.

"Okay," I say, nodding to them as they leave and hearing them make comforting, sisterly chatter together from outside. "Ma'am? You wanna help?"

Carol smirks at me, but it's not because she is refusing. I let myself smirk back slightly, understanding what she is trying to tell me without her having to use words.

"Oh, right. _Carol?_" I say, only, using her first name now instead, earning a chuckle of approval. "Do you wanna help?"

"Yeah, sure," she smiles. "What's it suppose to turn out like when we're done?"

"Uh..."

I look at the cover, seeing a young girl wearing a blue short sleeve with a picture of a cartoon rainbow printed on it, with big, hazel eyes, auburn, neck length hair and freckles sprinkled across her fair and smiling cheeks.

"Some little girl," I answer, opening the box and placing it on the table. Carol takes the box lid with the picture and smiles softly at the cover.

"Hm... looks kinda like..." Her voice is gentle and filled with memories, though she trails off before she finishes. But I know she is talking about Sophia. I let the corners of my mouth soften and curve slightly.

"I wish I'd met her."

"Yeah, you two woulda gotten along... Sophia was the kind o' child you couldn't help but get along with," Carol says tentatively, but she knows that I know this already.

I smile slightly, glad that she said her daughter's name. We splay the jigsaw pieces over the table and then begin our assemble.

"Did Carl tell you much about 'er... anything at all?" Carol asks after a while.

My gut aches at his mention. But I ignore it and nod. "Some... Like how she was a great friend; kind and friendly and generous, good," I say, doing well to bottle my pain and understanding why Carol was so reluctant to say Sophia's name now, as Carl's is almost painful to hear. "He said he and Lori and Shane escaped to the first camp –in the quarry – with you and Sophia and your husband, Ed?"

Carol nods in confirmation, sort of grimacing at Ed's mention and waiting a moment before talking again. "He wasn't a good father, or husband... or man... He was a bad man... a sick man." Her voice is quiet, though the words have nothing but venom behind them.

I furrow my brow in confusion, because Carl never told me much about Sophia's father, only that he kind of kept his distance from him. But Carol's brow arches and I suddenly realise what she means by _'sick'_. I wince, but this time it is in disgust, not pain. Carol nods in confirmation, looking sad and regretful. I can't imagine her guilt after allowing her daughter to have to go through that. To have to live with that and to have to call such a sick paedophile a husband... a father... it must be torture, especially now. I watch her for a moment, begging for her to understand what I have been through. But I can't bring the words to my mouth to tell her. But Carol stares right back, pursing her lips slightly before speaking, gently and so quietly that it is only in the deafening silence that we live in now that I manage to hear her.

"Oliver... it's okay... I understand."

I know that Carol has figured out why I haven't said anything about what happened to me. Maybe not all of it, but I can see by her sympathetic and pained expression that she has a rough idea. She has seen this kind of trauma before. She has had to witness the affects of physical and sexual abuse in her own daughter... and in herself... and now me, and it near enough kills me as I finally become aware of this.

My breath hitches. "I'm..."

I want to apologise for making her relive the memories that I am sure I am reminding her of, but I know that it will be meaningless now.

"I-I've met sick men too," I mutter to her instead, suddenly desperate for the consolation that I have been refusing from her this whole time. But I stay rigid, not wanting to move or breath or think or feel, just feeling my mouth open and close, trying to say the words that I won't allow to escape me.

"I know, Oliver."

Tears suddenly spill from my eyes and my face contorts as I stare down at the oak table top, watching my tears drip from my lashes and make a splash as they hit the varnished surface, the dust swirling with the salty water. Carol leans forward and dips her head a little, but I can't look at her, closing my eyes and holding my breath to stop it hitching.

_**Talk... Talk now, Oliver... before you can't bring yourself to talk ever again. **_

I can feel my whole body shaking, hearing the faint movement of the chair legs as they jolt against the floor. "Carol."

I try, but my throat closes. Only, it's not from my asthma.

Carol places her hand on mine and I wince from the contact, almost pulling away. But I know that she isn't the person I need to fear. She is probably the only person left alive who can help me.

"I'm here, Oliver."

I open my eyes, only just realising that they had been closed for a while now as I can feel my tears drying on my lashes. I stare at her, letting her almost grey irises pass their strength into me, without needing words, like always, and it amazes me that Carol has the power to offer her courage without using her voice, just her presence and comfort is enough.

I take a deep breath.

"I got out with them both - C-Carl and Mr. Grimes," I say, feeling like I am choking on their names. "The Governor was killed. It was over... We found a house, in an abandoned suburb just outside of where you found me. We stayed there for a couple days or so. Then Michonne found us... but the next day... th-they broke in... a group of guys. I hid with Mr. Grimes, 'cause Carl and Michonne were out on a run, but..." I I look away, unable to finish and running dry on the borrowed strength, but refusing to refuel with the comfort Carol is trying to give me.

She doesn't move her hand away, and I'm glad because I don't want her to. But I know that if she were to comfort me more than this; maybe gently stroke across the back of my hand with her thumb or tentatively squeeze my hand in hers, it will make me too uncomfortable, and I hate that, I hate being so afraid of something I know I don't need to be afraid of. But she seems to know this, because she doesn't move, or talk... she just waits for me.

"A man saw me," I say slowly. "Made me come out of hiding... Mr. Grimes was with me but the other guy didn't see him. But, I knew that if Mr. Grimes helped me, he'd get himself killed and wouldn't be able to save Carl and Michonne. So I left the room with the guy and another man before they could find him. They took me downstairs, there were four or five guys I think, maybe more, I don't remember. But they were..." Monsters, I want to finish with, but I shake my head clear of my anger. "They took me into the living room, and... a-a man... he... he said that he 'claimed' me..."

Carol's expression tenses and floods with sorrow, but I keep staring at her, knowing that if I look away I won't be able to keep talking. But I need to talk. If I don't I'm scared I will explode.

"I didn't know, what was happening... what he was talking about... what he was gonna do. H-he took me to the utility room and... a-and..." But my face contorts and a loud, guttural hiccup interrupts my voice, but when I try to finish I can't speak again, as if my allotted time to explain has run out, just like my strength.

Carol's brow arches and her grip on my hand changes slightly. I almost pull away from her, disturbed and reacting to her movement, but I realise that she is shaking too. She speaks with a very low, serious voice that I would be afraid of if I didn't know her.

"Oliver, did he – did the man...?"

I begin crying before she can form her sentence properly. I pull my hands away and lean my elbows on the table, crying hysterically into my palms and only just hearing Carol's quiet sobs over my own loud and frantic ones.

"No."

The word finally comes out of my convulsing body, terrified for what could have happened if things had taken place a moment later, or somehow was changed in some small way that would have ended up in the robbery of the last of my innocence and any remaining sanity, and I am almost sure that I will break into a million pieces of relief when I say it. But somehow I stay in one piece, crying and shaking, but still just me.

Still just Oliver De Luca.

Carol makes a noise like a choked sigh, and then takes a deep breath. I coax my eyes away from my palms. "No..." I repeat, shaking my head as I get her eye contact again. "He didn't rape me," I whisper shakily, the overwhelming relief in my truthful words proving to be almost too much for me to bear. "He didn't. I got out."

There is a long pause as what I have just shared sinks into Carol's mind, and my own too, letting us just embrace the relief of it for a moment, wiping our eyes dry and taking deep breaths.

"And Rick...? Carl? Michonne? You saw?" Carol asks dubiously, fearful for my answer as she suppresses her crying.

"No..." I shake my head, feeling tears continue down my cheeks. "But, I-I heard his screaming. Mr. Grimes was found. Carol... Carl and Michonne, they would've come back... th-they would've walked right into those men... they would've been-"

I start crying again, too much to finish my sentence.

"Oh, Oliver," Carol breathes.

She waits for me to settle again, which takes a long time, but she stays patient and comforting until I finally stop crying.

"But, are you sure? If you didn't see them, then... Oliver, they could still be alive."

I glare at her, suddenly wanting to scream at her, wanting to curse her statement for attempting to plant such a possibility in my mind, like saying such a thing is almost cruel. But I don't say this, because I want so much to believe her. But I can't believe that. Maybe a week ago I would have, but too much bad has happened for anything good to finally show up now.

"They're dead," I say blankly, hiding the despair that I am burying inside of me, afraid that it will become so strong that it throws me across the room. "They're dead," I repeat, "and it's my fault."

"No," Carol barks, making me startle a little. "Don't you say that... Ever. Guilt is a terrible thing to deal with... especially now. It latches onto whoever thinks they deserve it... some of us _do_ deserve it, and we take it, and it never lets go... But you are not one of those people, Oliver. You don't deserve the guilt. And it'll kill you if you let it eat away at you like this – like you're letting it do to you now."

I stare at Carol for a long moment, before nodding silently and wiping my eyes dry. I press my cold fingers to my closed lids, feeling the soggy, puffy skin on them. The relief from the chill of my cold extremities is too refreshing for words, so I just sigh, hiccuping slightly.

"Thank you," I say to her.

"That's okay, pookie."

I hiccup again, dropping my hands from my eyes and furrowing my eyebrows at her, watching as a subtle smirk spreads over her thin lips. "That's Daryl's nick name isn't it?" I ask, feeling a defiant, weak smirk pull at my own mouth.

Carol nods. "Yeah, it is. Always seems to put a smile on his face when I call him that... so, I thought he wouldn't mind me using it to cheer you up, too."

"Well, I guess it worked," I mutter, letting out a small chuckle. "But... I think_ 'pookie'_ should get to keep his nick name."

Carol chuckles quietly. "All right."

Mika and Lizzie walk into the room. Mika holds the tray of edible pecans and places them on the table in front of Carol. "You wanna help with the jigsaw?" I ask her, picking up a pecan and examining it, glad that my hands are no longer shaking.

"I was gonna look around the house a little, if that's okay?" she says, retrieving a nut cracker from the kitchen and handing it to Carol.

"Yeah sure. Go ahead," I answer, beginning to wonder if I am really as immature as Patrick used to say I was. But I push my feeble insecurity to the back of my head when Lizzie sits next to me and begins putting the puzzle pieces together.

"I wanna help," she says, chewing her lip again.

"Okay," I say, dropping the pecan I was holding back onto the tray and helping Lizzie. "Try to find the corner pieces first."

We continue the puzzle together as Carol begins to crack open the pecans. I eat some raw at Carol's permission. I like pecans, but they are never going to beat chocolate pudding.

After a little while, Lizzie stops what she is doing and drifts off, daydreaming. I stop too, watching her as her brow furrows and her pupils blow slightly, deep in thought. But she looks troubled, disturbed almost. I nudge Carol under the table and she looks up as she cracks open another pecan. I subtly motion my head to Lizzie and Carol glances at her.

"You still upset?" she asks the child, picking out the soft part of the pecan and placing it into a bowl. Lizzie frowns at the puzzle, before meeting Carol's gaze.

"Sometimes I don't understand. But I'm trying to, ma'am," she says. "I am."

Carol purses her lips, grateful for Lizzie's efforts, and looks back to the pecans.

"Look what I found!"

Mika suddenly skips into the living room, holding a moth eaten doll with long, red hair.

"I'm gonna name 'er..." She glances at the window as she thinks. "Grazelda Gunderson!" she giggles, rushing over to the rug and sitting cross legged in front of the fire. I smile a little as she plays with the doll, noticing the gloom from outside turning the room yellow and orange from the flame and various lamps dotted around the room.

Tyreese dawdles into the living room, wiping his hands on a rag. "Well, we got plenty o' water. Now all we gotta do is bag us one of dem deer and we all set!"

"And we'll get one," Carol affirms, cracking another pecan open.

"Yeah," Tyreese breathes.

I look at him, a little alarmed when I see him kind of swaying on his feet, smiling as he looks around the room elatedly.

"Ty?" I say wearily.

He looks at me, snapping out of his daze.

"What's wrong?" Mika asks him.

"I'm not used to this," he answers, breathing deeply.

"Used to what?" Lizzie questions.

"Being in a living room... in a house," Tyreese says, his brow rising more and more as he looks around the room, impressed and grateful for our luck in finding this place.

"Yeah," Mika says, grinning at him. "So relax."

Tyreese's breath catches as he finally takes a seat in the armchair beside him. He lets himself melt into the comfort of the soft cushions and removes his beanie hat. Reminded of my own hat, I pull at it a little, before continuing to put together the jigsaw with Lizzie for a while.

"We should live here," Mika says, smiling proudly at all of us. I furrow my brow at her, almost telling her that to stay here is impossible. But I glance at Carol, seeing her smiling, and then to Tyreese, seeing that he is also smiling.

_They want to stay here?__** I think so... maybe that's not such a bad idea? **__But, what about Terminus?__** Well... what about it? If this place, here in the Grove, is already safe... a sanctuary... then why would you want to leave to find another that may or may not be there?**_ _Because... what if...__** What?**__ What if they really did survive? Like Carol said...What if Carl is alive? What if he and Rick and Michonne are all okay? If they saw a Terminus sign... they'd follow it. Wouldn't they?__** Yes. They would follow it. **__So? Why wouldn't we keep going? We could find them. I could be with him again.__** Because, Oliver... what if they aren't there? What if he isn't there?**__ No. No, that wouldn't prove anything!__** Yes it would. If Carl isn't at Terminus you know he'll be dead. **__So you do think he's dead... really dead?__** I... I don't know, Oliver... I really don't know any more.**_

* * *

**Notes**

So, Oliver wasn't claimed! Yay! Poor kid is still traumatized though... but he'll be okay one day... I hope :)

**Preview: In the next chapter, Carl IS BACK! 3 chapters?! How fucking dare me! I know! And I am so sorry! It will be their little episode in "Us" among the next few scenes in the episode "The Grove" Oliver becomes truly aware of how unconditionally adorable Judy is! But issues with Lizzie are becoming more noticeable, but she's probably just having a tough time though, right?**

Don't hesitate to leave me a little comment, praise, criticism anything. You don't even need to log in :) It helps me a lot and the more I get, the more I will upload :)

Happy reading xx :)


	24. The Grove, Part 5: Judith

Re-edited: 13/05/2015

* * *

**Guest** haha, yeah, they have no idea! I can't wait for you to read what happens with that! Also, gosh, thank you for spending so much time reading the story! Love you for that!

**mks 12 98** I know, it would have prevented the whole tragedy. But I guess they left them alone because in the new world, kids are gonna have to be trusted on their own. And in short, really, they just would never have thought Lizzie would do that. You know. It just doesn't happen. Kids killing kids... well, that's what they thought...

**Eli-XD-O **That's, sweet. I really wanted to show how close Carol and Oliver become. And they only get closer :) Yeah, I think Oliver needed that little eruption of emotion, poor kid. Don't worry, De Luca and Grimes will be reunited soon. X

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Something gargles near my face, pulling me from unconsciousness. I was awake a few hours ago to go to the bathroom, and I didn't expect myself to fall back asleep again like I must have. Regardless, in an act of defiance to myself, I keep my eyes shut, only aware of the fact that I am warm and comfortable, sandwiched between Mika and Lizzie in the double bed in one of the bedrooms the three of us adopted as our own last night.

Like I wanted, I let myself drift away again, tiredness taking over my mind once more, and I wonder for a moment what had woken me in the first place, though, just as I drift off again I remember what it was when the quiet gargling sounds again like before.

I open my eyes with a mild start, but instantly relax again when I meet the bright and shiny eyes of Judith staring back at me. She watches me for a long moment, blinking innocently and I realise that she is waiting to be fed and tended to. It's strange, I remember Judith crying a lot back at the Prison, as Carl would moan about her constantly, but now, it's like she knows that she should keep quiet. I'm not complaining, though. I would much rather her wake me with gargle noises than screaming.

She blinks at me, mumbling to herself as she absentmindedly prods her thumb against my cheek.

"Mornin' Judy," I smile and lean forward a little to kiss her forehead, before sitting up and resting her on my lap. "You want some breakfast?"

Woken by the movement on the mattress, Mika leans over onto her back to look at me, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "Mornin'," she mumbles. But she sees Judith in my arms and frowns at us. "Hey, you said you were gonna take 'er back to Carol before you fell asleep."

It's true. I told Carol I would just have Judith in the bedroom with me and the girls for a little while, and then take her back and let her sleep in with her. I remember Mika and Lizzie falling asleep, but nothing after that. I must have just curled up with the quiet and tolerant little baby in my arms. Although, seeing as Carol hasn't come in and taken Judith from me, I am guessing that she isn't particularly worried.

"I know. I forgot."

Mika giggles, yawning at the same time which makes me sneer quietly at her while her eyes are closed.

"Carol looked tired anyway," Mika mumbles. "Maybe it was better for Judy to sleep in here. Everything works out the way it's suppose to, right?"

I smile at her, remembering her tell me the same thing during Story Time once, she said that her Mom used to say it all the time.

"Yeah. I guess," I mumble.

"Jus' like the pillows," Mika says. She's talking about my feather allergy. Because along with those inhalers in the house, there were foam pillows too. So it meant that I could sleep in a bed, with no feathers, and no asthma attack.

"Yes," I confirm confidently, "just like the pillows."

I scoot across Mika and climb off the bed, carefully keeping Judith in my arms.

"I'm gonna go feed her. Go back to sleep," I tell Mika, but when I turn to look at the ten year old, she has rolled over and snuggled into her sister, asleep already. I smile at them. "C'mon, Judy," I whisper to the infant, lifting her to my hip and stepping across the bedroom and into the hallway.

Carol keeps the formula in her supply bag, so I go into her bedroom, surprised to see that she is still fast asleep. I reach around the door and silently pull her supply bag out of the room, and then take Judith and the supply bag into the living room, setting them both down on the rug beside each other. Judith sits herself up and begins playing with the moth bitten frays of the fabric, waiting patiently while I prepare her formula.

"Come here then," I mutter when I have amateurishly mixed and prepared the bottle, lifting the baby and resting her on my arm. She reaches her hands out for the bottle, grabbing at the air in anticipation. "Okay, okay," I chuckle a little, bringing the bottle to her mouth and feeding it to her.

I have only done this a few times before, so I'll admit, I am awkward, spending the first few minutes trying to figure out how to balance Judith one one arm while I keep the bottle elevated so that she doesn't suck any air. I have to give Beth and Carol and Rick credit. I'd seen them do this while they ate, too. How they managed to balance Judith, feed the bottle, and fork their own food was and is still beyond me, so I focus solely on feeding Judith first.

Carol walks in, crossing her arms to wrap her fleece around her a little more. I look up to her. "Cold, huh?" I ask, noticing her shivering and hunched shoulders.

"Mmm," she agrees, raising her brow and nodding. She yawns. "Not as cold as it will be soon, though. I'm jus' glad we slept inside – with a fire, too."

I nod and give a half smile, continuing to feed Judith. But I grimace as an unfortunate odour creeps into my nose. I hear Carol chuckle and I look up to her, still grimacing from the smell.

"You gotta change 'er," Carol says to me, grinning smugly at my disgust.

_Oh, gross. __**Way to go on the maturity levels, Oliver...**__ But it is! __**Oh, grow up.**__ Fine. _I look at Carol and move my mouth into a smile, a little more awkwardly than I mean it to be.

"Uh, I… uh, I don't know how," I admit.

Carol smiles. "It's easy. I'll show you."

So she does, and I do well not to show my repulse as I help her change Judith's dirty diaper. When we finish, and Judith has finished her bottle as well, Carol tells me that I should wash with some of the water Tyreese brought back yesterday. So I fill a bucket half way and grab a sponge, before heading into the bathroom and finally washing.

It's been almost a week since I properly cleaned myself. I had almost forgotten how incredible it feels to touch my skin and not have a layer of grunge rub off on my fingers. There's nothing I can do about my clothes yet though. I'll clean them later and let them dry over night, but for now I will just have to deal with it. I checked in the other bedrooms last night as well, but no teenage boys lived here so I can't change. But I guess clean(ish) skin and dirty clothes is better than dirty everything.

* * *

I am given permission to take Judith with me outside to the garden. Mika and Lizzie join us. The garden is just beside the old shack a few hundred yards away from the house, it's overgrown and wild now after so long without a tender. But it's fruiting right now, so at the moment it looks like a big random merge of ripe fruit and vegetables. Another display of how perfect this place is.

Mika and Lizzie begin their search for fruit that they like – grapes, strawberries, blackberries, tomatoes and some cherry-plumbs. We definitely won't go hungry for a few days. Making an effort to avoid even touching the grapes though, I pick a strawberry and bite a chunk out, enjoying the beloved sweetness as I eat it.

Judith grabs for the half eaten fruit, wanting some too.

"Is Judy allowed to eat solids yet?" I ask Mika and Lizzie.

Lizzie shrugs. "I've seen Carol give 'er watered down cereal. So I guess so."

I look back at Judith and bring the fruit to her mouth. She almost looks confused for a moment, but she opens her tiny jaw, leaning forward to chew on it. I chuckle a little, amused because she isn't really eating it, only gnawing at the flesh on the fruit and sucking the juice out.

When she has pretty much dried it, I throw the deflated strawberry away before grabbing a handful more and heading back to the house with her.

"I'm gonna go back in. Stay close to the house, okay?" I tell the girls.

"I'm comin', too," Mika says, following me. Lizzie stays where she is, continuing to pick and eat the fruit.

"You all right on your own?" I ask her.

She smiles at me and nods. "Yep."

"Okay..." I say, looking around the perimeter to see the fences, though not exactly the most secure structures in the world, I know that Lizzie would be able to retreat to the house if she needed to, so I decide that it is safe enough to let her stay out here alone for a few minutes. I can keep an eye out for her from the house. "Well just stay near the house."

Once inside, I go to the old fashioned stereo in the corner of the living room, Judith propped on my hip. I fiddle with the dials, and am amazed that the thing is still working. This place must have its own generator, or, maybe it's been converted to battery. Regardless, I search with the baby for something to put on. It's all just Elvis Presley, Freddy Martin, Diana Shore, and Dennis Day, all artists that I hardly know or don't recognise at all. But then I see The Ink Spots. Dad used to love them. They're an old band from the 40's and he once said that they reminded him of his parents, I didn't know my grandparents on his side though, my Grandpa died when I was four and my Grandma when I was only a little older, and that side of my family weren't ever very good at keeping in contact.

So I take the record out of its case and carefully put it in the player, moving the dial onto it like I had seen people do in movies. It works, somehow, and the vintage music is just like I remember it – the type of music so old that you can hear the static behind it, but it's soothing, comforting.

* * *

**"Maybe" by The Ink Spots**

* * *

"_Maybe, you'll think of me  
When you are all alone  
Maybe the one who is waiting for you  
Will prove untrue, then what will you do?_

Maybe, you'll sit and decide  
Wishing that I were near, there  
Maybe you'll ask me to come back again  
And maybe I'll say maybe."

I go sit down at the dining room table, resting Judith on my lap and enjoying the old song. The strawberries we picked are beside the unfinished puzzle and Mika places her haul there too, before sitting opposite me and joining me in picking at the fruit. Carol comes in, nabbing a few blackberries and throwing them into her mouth.

"Ooh, I've missed fresh fruit," she enthuses through her mouthful. But her face straitens as she checks around the room. "Wait, where's Lizzie?"

"In the _garden,_" I answer, not really knowing if I should really call it that seeing as it is more of a giant bush of fruit and vegetables now. "She's still eating," I add without much thought. Carol looks a little concerned for a moment, but she seems to come to the same conclusion as I did and nods.

"Alright. I'm gonna boil some more water," she smiles, lifting the bucket Tyreese brought in yesterday evening and heading over to the stove. "Did you throw that water away after you washed?"

I nod, grabbing a cherry plumb and throwing it into my mouth. "Yep," I tell her, nibbling around the pip of the fruit. "Out the bedroom window."

"Okay, good. We'll use that bucket for washing then, and cleaning clothes," Carol says.

I turn back to the fruit and take a tomato. Judith grabs and coos for some too and I pull off a little and hand it to her, smiling as she sticks her thumb into it, making a mess and laughing to herself when it gets all over her fingers.

"No – Judy, you gotta _eat_ it," I mumble, taking it from her and guiding the food into her mouth, "like this, see?"

She protests a little, but when the fruit meets her tongue, she automatically begins eating it properly, and looks like she is enjoying it too. I grin at her, satisfied as she munches away on it._ She's so adorable! I wish Carl could see this…_

My smile fades and I watch Judith for a moment, and as if she can read my mind, she stops eating and stares at me, before raising her hand and offering me the half eaten tomato piece.

"I'm okay," I decline, almost convinced that she understands as I hand the food back to her and she begins eating it again. I sigh, feeling that damned lump in my throat. "I'm... I'm sorry," I whisper to her, so that Mika and Carol don't hear me. I only want Judith to hear this. My apology is only for her.

The baby turns to me, chewing on the last bit of the tomato.

"I couldn't save them. I'm so sorry, Judy."

Judith, obviously, makes no sign that she understands what I have just said to her and instead she just watches me for a long moment, until she simply loses interest and reaches down to the table to grab at a puzzle piece. I smile a little, feeling pretty dumb. But regardless, I make a silent promise to myself. I promise myself that I am going to keep Judith safe. That I am going to keep her alive. I couldn't protect her father, or... or her brother. So I owe it to them to keep her safe. I owe it to Carl, and I will protect his sister until I take my last breath. Judith is everything now. Judith is hope, and the world needs hope right now...

The world needs Judith Grimes.

* * *

**Carl's POV**

I haven't spoken to Dad. I've hardly even spoken to Michonne either. Maybe one syllable responses to her, and Dad is lucky to get a small grunt of approval or disapproval out of me. But I don't have anything to say. Especially to him. Dad has given up trying to apologise for what he did. I know he wants me to tell him it's fine, that I forgive him, that I think he did the right thing in letting Oliver die to save us, that he did what he had to do.

Even if that is true, I would've. . . I wish I could have swapped places with Oliver. I wish it was me who had to stay. I wish he was the one who escaped. I hate myself for not keeping him safe and now I will never get the chance to apologise to him. I will never get the chance to tell him. . . _really_ tell him that I loved him.

Our routine is repetitive, tedious, and is becoming more and more maddening by the moment. We walk along the tracks, we stop and rest on the tracks, we eat less than a can or jar of something disgusting each on the tracks, and then we sleep on the tracks. All that, just to do exactly the same thing again the next day. I hate it. I hate it even more without him. But I can't do anything to change that. I don't do anything, at all. Not anymore.

Michonne taps my shoulder suddenly, snapping me from my thoughts and making me startle. "What?" I mumble, letting my gaze roll back to the tracks under me. Out of my peripheral vision, I see her purse her lips into a tense smile.

"I never told you, but I found a few candy bars while we were looting," she says, careful not to mention what looting trip, because one was when I was with Oliver and the other was when Oliver was left behind, even though she knows I am thinking about him, or, trying not to think about him which only makes me think about him more.

I extend my hand, dismissively gesturing her to hand a bar over. But she smirks and doesn't take them out. I frown at her, holding my tongue from the irritable comments it's itching to grumble at her.

"It's gonna take more than that," she says.

"Please?" I add blankly to my gesture, ready to just give up as I begin to lose interest all together. But Michonne shakes her head.

"Nope. More. Let's make a bet," she proposes.

I begin to turn back to the track to keep walking, rolling my eyes. "Michonne, I really don't feel l-"

"Shh, just give it a whorl," she says, a smile tugging at her lips as she follows me.

I stare at her incredulously as I walk, confused and irritated by why she is trying to entertain me so much. First it was the crazy cheese and now it's damn candy. Michonne looks away, pursing her lips.

"Sorry. You don't have to," she says gently, reaching to her back pack to just hand a bar over to me.

"Wait," I reach my hand out to hers, pulling it away from her back pack before she grabs a bar. I purse my lips in consideration, feeling my relentless competitiveness begin to seep into my mind, slowly taking over it. "I'll, uh... _'give it a whorl'_," I subtly mock her previous proposal, but I keep my face straight.

Michonne smiles and I try to return it, but only one side of my lips kind of twitch a little.

"What bet do you wanna make?" I ask.

Michonne thinks for a moment, before pointing to the tracks. "Whoever can walk along the track for the longest wins a bar... winner's choice."

"Hm," I nod, raising my brow in confidence and keeping my voice casual, "all right, you're on."

We line up, me on the right side, balancing on the iron beam and Michonne on my left. I spread my arms, readjusting my posture to suit the two supply bags that I am still lugging on either side of me. I glance at her, cocking a brow and feeling a smile almost tug at my lips.

She chuckles and nods, "Go."

We begin walking. I wobble almost every step I take but I keep my balance together to a satisfactory level, unconsciously smiling now as I focus solely on beating Michonne. She giggles, looking proud of herself for cheering me up.

But I become aware of my grin and I straighten my face again without really wanting to. I glance away, pursing my lips in discomfort with my own happiness, feeling like I don't deserve it. But I ignore it and continue along the iron beam.

"I think we got about a days worth o' water left," Dad says ahead.

I glance up at him for a moment, noticing that he hasn't realised mine and Michonne's little bet yet. I almost step off the track before he sees us, but my ruthless need to win this thing wont allow it.

"We're lucky it's cooled off a little bit, but." He stops and I hear him turn around to us as his boots move the pebbles beneath them. "What are you doin'?"

I look up to him again, seeing him smiling at me and cocking a brow, glad to see me doing something other than sulking I guess. But his expression forces a small smirk to spread across my own mouth, but I shake it away and look at the iron beam again, irritated by my own glee and swallowing the guilt again.

"Winning a bet," I mutter irritably under my breath.

"In your dreams!" Michonne retorts in jest, not noticing the annoyance and pain in my voice. I look up to her, rolling my eyes.

"I'm still on," I protest quietly, making an effort not to let Dad hear me too well. But in my concentration not to include him, I loose my footing and almost stumble. "Gyuh!" I groan as I right myself, flailing out my arms like an idiot.

"Spoke too soon, Wise Guy," Michonne seers.

Dad walks towards us and I avoid his eye contact, continuing my slow stepping along the train track. "This might go on for a while," he begins, trying to get me to look at him by dipping his head as he approaches, but I focus on the iron beam under my odd shoes, not giving in to him. "Any chance we could... speed this up."

Ass hole. This whole time he has been practically begging me to act like a normal kid and enjoy myself, and this one time. One time. He wants us to stop. Well screw him.

"Yeah, you're right," Michonne says, and I almost glare at her, but stop myself short of it because she doesn't actually step off of the track. "We shouldn't be foolin' 'round. We should probably CALL!"

She jolts her arm out to me and I startle slightly, but maintain my balance. Only, I can't say the same for her because she begins to topple as her extended extremity throws her off balance. I grin as she falls, unable to relax my face as I watch her fumble to right herself and stand properly beside the track. She glares at me as I stop walking, staying stood up on the iron beam and enjoying being slightly taller than her for once.

"I win," I say. "Pay up."

I hear Dad chuckle slightly and I shoot him a glare, both of our expressions dropping instantly. I look back to Michonne, as she tries to ignore my hostility towards my father, and she hesitates, exchanging a glance with Dad, but he doesn't say anything so she proceeds to take out two candy bars, subtly trying to conceal one, but I notice. I read the packaging of the one she obviously wants me to take, _CRUNCH _and then I crane my head to read the other, _BIG CAT_.

"Is that really the last Big Cat?" I ask, chewing my lip as something tugs at my memory. But I shake it off, lifting my hand and letting her think I will take the crunch bar, but I move my extremity and hover over the Big Cat instead.

"Oh! Come on?!" Michonne mews.

"Hey, but you said," I glance up at her, smirking from the buzz winning has granted me, "winner's choice," I repeat her tone from a minute ago.

Michonne purses her lips, silently cursing herself for her previous promise. She tosses the bar at me underarm and I fumble to catch it for a moment.

"Go ahead, it's yours," she says in dismay, grinning in amusement. "You won it. Fair and square."

I split open the bar, only, I suddenly remember why the bar brand was of significance to me. Oliver said that he like Big Cat candy bars the day we ate the pudding on the rooftop. I frown at the packet, scolding myself for being so sentimental, but unable to help it, and then I frown at my father, making his expression drop again from the stupid smile plastered over it a moment before. Hatred bubbles through my veins, and for a moment, I can feel the scream building in my chest, ready to explode.

_"I'd still want you to smile," Oliver's voice suddenly speaks in my head, his gentle, articulate and beloved sound repeating what he had said to me only a few days ago. "If I died. I'd still want you to smile. I'd still wanna know that you'd be okay."_

I hold Dad's gaze with what feels like a rock or tumour, growing and expanding in my gut, weighing me down with my own despair and sadness. My chin shakes as tears well in my eyes. But I look away from him, forcing my face to relax as I aggressively blink away my tears. I miss his voice. I miss _him._ So much it hurts. But I know that Oliver meant what he told me. He would still want me to be all right. I don't know what I can do to stop hurting for him, but hating my father isn't going to help. I know that, and I know Oliver would say the same if he were here.

I look back to Dad, showing no emotion but making an effort not to frown or show the contempt I know I don't really feel towards him. He nods, as if he understands what I am trying to do, but neither of us say anything. Michonne zips up her bag and is about to start walking again. But I snap the bar in half and hold out a piece to her. She hesitates, smiling softly at me in silent decline.

"Come on," I say quietly, moving my hand closer to her, "we always share."

She suppresses her smile and holds out her hand. "Fork it over."

"Alright," I whisper, satisfied as I place the chocolate in her palm, catching Dad's glance. He holds my eye contact, pursing his lips. But I move my mouth into a small smile, granting Oliver's wish. Dad almost looks startled by my cooperation, but when he gets over it he smiles back, wider than I think he meant to. Without a word, he nods and turns around again to keep walking, Michonne following just behind.

I watch them for a moment, raising the chocolate to my mouth and eating it. The chocolaty taste reminding me of the pudding, reminding me of him.

Michonne looks back to me, motioning me to follow as she holds her arm out and smiles.

_"I'd still want you to smile," Oliver said._

So I do. I smile back at Michonne, and begin walking again. I hope he's smiling as well. Even though he's gone... even though he is dead. I want him to be okay too.

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"Grazelda!"

I hear the excited call of Lizzie from outside, presumably playing with the doll Mika found yesterday. I look up to Carol as she places the kettle on the stove to boil, and she leans on the cooker, smiling as she glances out the window to Lizzie, who I can still hear playing.

But then I spot the red haired doll resting on Mika's lap and my brow furrows in confusion. _**Wait... who's Lizzie playing with if the doll is with Mika? **_But I jump when Carol suddenly gasps and launches herself out of the kitchen.

"Lizzie!" she murmurs frantically, slamming the front door open and running out. I grab Judith from my lap and protectively clutch her to my chest, before rushing after the spooked woman, Mika close behind me. "Lizzie! GET AWAY FROM IT!"

Carol is outside, shouting frantically, and I can hear her charging across the lawn. _Get away from what?_ My mind spins as I push open the front door that had swung closed behind Carol. But then I gasp as I see what Carol is so afraid of. It's a walker. Lizzie stands in front of it, facing away, with her arms up to Carol submissively as the woman charges for her, the walker right behind the child, growling and snapping and reaching out at her hair. My heart pounds in my chest, sure that Judith can feel it.

"Lizzie!" I yell as the hairs stand on end over my neck and arms. "Watch out!"

"No! No, no!" the child begs, letting the walker get closer and closer to her.

"Right now, Lizzie!" Carol yells again, sprinting to her with her knife in hand. But Lizzie doesn't try to get away, even as the walker continues to chase her.

"No!" she cries, begging Carol. "No! No!"

"Lizzie!" Adrenaline courses through me, and I can feel Judith reacting to my fear as her heart beat pounds against my chest too.

"LIZZIE!" Carol screams, shoving the child to the floor just as the walker is about to lunge at her, and I watch, already having grabbed my gun from the back of my jeans and readying myself to fire it, but Carol pins the walker to the floor and drives her knife through its forehead.

Killing it.

"NO!"

Lizzie's screams are so loud and desperate that my ear drums rattle in my head, making me wince.

"Lizzie?" Mika gasps, about to rush after her sister. But I stop her, clutching Judith to me with one hand and using my other to grab Mika's arm, hooking her frail elbow with my fingers as I try to keep hold of my gun. She almost slips out of my grasp as she struggles, but I pull her again. "Mika, take Judith and go back inside."

"No, Ol-"

"She was playing with me! She wanted a friend!" Lizzie cries behind us and I glance over my shoulder at her.

"She wanted to kill you!" Carol retorts, kneeling down in front of the walker and Lizzie.

"I was gonna lead her away!"

"Go inside," I say again, returning my focus on the little girl.

Mika hesitates, wanting to help her sister.

"Mika! Go." I bark, distressed by Lizzie's behaviour and knowing that Mika shouldn't be here to see it. She glares at me for a moment. "Now."

Finally, she relents, taking Judith from me like I'd asked and rushing back inside of the house to Tyreese. I spin around and rush off the porch to Lizzie and Carol, wincing as the throb in my temple blurs my vision a little.

"You could've died!" Carol yells at her.

I stop a few yards away when Lizzie looks at me, her eyes wide and mortified and boring into mine so furiously that it scares me.

"It's the same thing!" she screams at me, and then glares at Carol. "It's the same THING! YOU KILLED HER! YOU KILLED HER! IT'S THE SAME THING!"

"Lizzie," Carol pants, overwhelmed by how wrong everything is that Lizzie is saying. Lizzie glares at me, pointing a finger and furious.

"WHAT IF I KILLED YOU!? WHAT IF I KILLED YOU!?"

Her screams erupt from her frail body and she doubles over, wailing for the walker, her face contorted and delusional. I step back instinctively, staring at her and unable to process this, afraid of her, but I stop, knowing that she doesn't mean it, knowing that she's just confused and frustrated and mourning and scared.

"Lizzie," Carol hisses, scolding her.

But the distraught child continues to sob at the walker, shaking and staring down at it's rotting corps, hopeless and devastated.

"Lizzie?" Carol whispers, trying to be comforting now.

"You don't understand... You don't understand. You don't understand!"

Lizzie's frustration and anger builds, and her body begins to shake so badly that she seems to convulse. She bawls up her fists and she doubles over again, crumpling in her fury, and then, a moment later, exploding with it.

"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!"

"Lizzie," Carol repeats, trying desperately to calm her.

"You didn't have to. You didn't have to!" Lizzie interrupts, drawing in a sharp and loud breath as she tries to straighten her posture, but she folds again under her own hysteria. "She didn't wanna hurt anybody. She only wanted a friend!"

"Lizzie, it tried to kill you," I try, panting as my brow arches in worry.

"NO!" Lizzie screams at me. "She WOULDN'T hurt anybody!"

I almost stumble backwards. But I hold my ground, gulping the lump in my throat. Lizzie glares at me, but when I stay silent she turns to Carol again, shaking her fists in front of her chest in rage.

"An' you killed 'er! YOU KILLED 'ER! YOU KILLED 'ER!"

I watch helplessly as Lizzie falls to her knees, crying hysterically over the walker.

"She was my friend!" she sobs, dipping her head and resting it on the rotten walker's chest.

Carol pants, exchanging a glance with me. But I just stare at her, my mouth open and struggling to draw in my breath, the stress getting to my pathetic lungs again. But I have no explanation for Carol. I have no idea what is happening in Lizzie's mind right now to cause her to become so unhinged.

No one does.

* * *

**Notes**

I was gonna say, "Look! No one cried in this chapter..." But... hmm... I guess I was wrong...

Well... looks like Oliver wasn't exactly smiling at that moment, huh? Okay, so I'm really starting to hate how my chapters are ending on a really 'not good' note, it's getting old and as I write it is making me want to kill something! But, the next chappy will end on a slightly higher note, more for my mental benefit than anything else, but yeah :)

Hope ya'll enjoyed this chapter. Please leave a little review on your way out to tell me of your thoughts :)

Favourite part(s)?

Worst part(s)?

Helpful criticism is truly appreciated :D

Happy reading xx :)


	25. The Grove, Part 6: Eye Spy

Re-edited: 24/08/2015

* * *

Eli-XD-O Judy is awesome, isn't she!

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Lizzie didn't stop crying. She wept over that walker's body for too long, and in the end it was Tyreese who lifted her weak and distraught form from the earth and carried her back into the house. She won't talk to us. She's just been in her room.

"Give 'er time," Carol says gently.

I've been sat on the floor, leant on the bedroom door trying to coax Lizzie to open it for me, to let me in, maybe finish the puzzle together or something, but she's just crying, the silent kind. The kind that you can't help. So I sigh in relent, giving Carol a glum nod and swallowing my dry throat. I am still wheezing, but it's not bad enough to take my inhaler so I've decided to wait for my breathing to settle on its own. "Do you wan't me to go fetch some water?" I ask.

"No," Carol answers. "You're comin' huntin' with me and Mika. Ty'll stay with Judy and Lizzie." I follow her into the kitchen. Mika's in here and Carol hands her a rifle. "Oliver? Help her with it?" she asks, motioning to the weapon. Despite being a useless shot, back in Story Time I was the fastest in preparing a firearm. So I nod and help Mika load up the rifle and carry it properly, making sure that the safety is off and that it's comfortable enough for her small frame, while Carol heads into her own bedroom.

"Thanks," Mika smiles at me, though it's tense and worried. I know Lizzie's outburst has shaken her, and so Mika smiles gratefully when I pull her into me, tucking her under my arm on my good side.

"Here," Carol says behind me, emerging from her room with what looks like a tangled mass of leather in her hands. "It's a holster. Figured you could use it."

"Thanks," I say, taking it and fitting it around my waist, smiling when my Glock fits into it, and with that, the three of us head out to the Grove.

* * *

We've been out for almost an hour, roaming around the property to see if we can find anything. I saw a squirrel a few minutes ago, perched on top of the outhouse. But to my complete embarrassment I left the safety on and when I pulled the trigger it didn't even fire. The damned squirrel practically laughed in my face before disappearing into a pecan tree. Carol and Mika were humane, managing to keep their smirks subtle, but I was mortified. _**Yeah, not the best hunter in the world, are you, Oliver?**__ I never said I was. __**No, and I can see why. You're terrible!**_ I roll my eyes at myself, cheeks burning.

"Is it too heavy?" Carol asks Mika.

"Nah," Mika says, holding the too-large-for-her-tiny-child-form-to-properly-carry rifle. "I'm good."

I smile a little, walking to their right beside her, kind of feeling a strange brotherly proud-ness for how mature Mika's become since the Prison, a feeling I share with Carol when the two of us exchange a satisfied look.

"Fire's still burning," she states.

I can smell it, that distinct burnt-flesh-and-wood smell. With all this time I'd almost gotten used to it. But I look up to the cloud, seeing the dark and narrow stem of smoke still floating up to the sky, kind of reminding me of the candle in _'Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn'_.

_"Climb the thin tower of smoke, linger at its top a moment, and then..."_

But we never got further than that in Story Time. I'd read a few more chapters the day Michonne found Rick, Carl and I. . . But I can't remember how it continued. _**Maybe... 'and then dispersed into the air and was carried along the sky, free at last'?**_ _I don't know. But it really doesn't matter anyway._

"Coulda gone out," Carol says.

"Nope," Mika takes the words from my mouth. "The smoke's black. If it was white the fire wouldn't be burning anymore."

Carol and I raise our brows, impressed that Mika knew what she was talking about. "What a Brain Box," I say in jest.

Mika elbows me in the arm, though, stares at me worriedly when I wince from it, but I wave her off so she keeps talking. "I miss science class," she says happily. "Except when we had to do stuff like cut up planarian worms."

"You gotta do worse than that nowa days, Mika," Carol says.

"I don't gotta."

"You do," Carol protests, bringing us to stop. "Lizzie's bigger than you an' in some ways she's stronger... but you're smarter, an' you understand these... _things._ You gotta look out for her." She turns to keep walking. "You have to-" But Carol freezes and holds her arm out to stop us, staring.

It's another deer.

We watch it for a moment as it grazes on the grass, oblivious to our presence. Mika goes to hand the rifle to me, losing her confidence.

"No, this is yours, Mika," I whisper to her.

She watches me, silently begging I do it for her, but I don't relent. In all honesty Mika has a better chance of getting a decent shot that my shitty aim ever will.

Mika glances to her other side to get help from Carol instead, but the woman shakes her head like I did. "Go ahead, you do it. Just like I showed you at The Prison," she encourages. "Go ahead."

Realising at she has no other option, Mika reluctantly takes aim at the animal. But I see how badly she is shaking, the small jolts of the rifle as her hands and elbows knock, her uneasy breathing. _**Jeeze. Is she okay?**_

A long time passes, and still, no shot rings out.

Then, Mika lowers the rifle. "I can't," she tells us.

The deer wander off into the tree cover, and when I turn to look back at Carol, I see her crossing her arms disappointedly, both silently reprimanding and confused by the child's muddled morality.

"We still have all those pecans," I say, trying to ease the tension.

"And peaches," Mika shrugs.

Carol cocks an eyebrow at me, reprimanding my encouragement. "C'mon," she says quietly, motioning us to go back to the house.

Mika waits for me as I sling my arm over her shoulder, pulling at my beanie with my other. "It's okay," I whisper into her hair, squeezing gently. "You'll get there one day. Everything works out the way it's suppose to, right?"

Mika nods, before leaning her head on my side and extending her stride to match mine.

* * *

Carol and Tyreese had gone out to get water, leaving me with the three girls. Judith is sleeping in Carol's room. Tyreese found a baby cot. It's one that sways and it looks really comfortable, I think Judith would agree because she was out of it as soon as I started to rock it for her with my foot. Lizzie is in our bedroom, still, apparently she hasn't left yet.

"Do you know how to play Eye Spy?" I ask Mika as we sit on the rug in front of the fire.

Mika rests Grazelda in her lap and looks up. "I'm not sure," Mika answers. "Why?"

"I was trying to play it with Lizzie the day we got here, while we were waiting for you and Carol, but she didn't know how to play it properly."

"I don't know how to play," Mika confirms.

"Do you know hide and seek?"

Mika shakes her head no.

"Charades?"

Again, Mika shakes her head, a smile spreading over her lips at how devastated I must look.

"Marco Polo?" I ask, getting kind of desperate now.

Mika giggles at me and shakes her head again. "Sorry."

I furrow my brow. I understand that she must've been only seven or eight at the Turn, but she must have played these games before that? _**Maybe... but I'm guessing growing up in the apocalypse so young tends to make a child forget the small things in life.**_ _Jesus! These games were my childhood! I couldn't imagine it without them... That's it. I don't care if we live in the damned apocalypse, I am giving these girls some kind of cheesy, stereotypical, childhood memories if kills me! __**That isn't a funny joke anymore, Oliver.**_

I stand up from the table and grab Mika's hand. "Come with me," I say, pulling.

"What're we doin'?" she giggles, running along beside me to keep up with my rushing.

"_We,_" I begin dramatically, though staying quiet enough to make sure I don't disturb the sleeping baby down the hallway, "are gonna go get your sister. And then I'm gonna teach you both how to be _real_ kids. And we are gonna have a _real_ game of Eye Spy." As 'serious' as I am, Mika doesn't stop laughing. I don't think I've never heard her laugh so much.

I get to mine and the girl's bedroom door, grinning as I knock on the wooden surface with my free hand and still holding Mika's small hand with my other.

"Lizzie?" I whisper into the door. I don't hear anything. "Lizzie?"

I push open the door, and our expressions drop. It's empty. Lizzie isn't here. I got to the cupboard first, and Mika checks under the bed, and then I notice the open window. "Oh, shit," falls from my mouth and a course of adrenaline surges through me, and the first thing I do is shut it. "_Shitshitshit._"

"Cuss."

"Sorry, Mika."

"Where is she?" Mika asks. But I rush out, Mika following me as I go to Carol's room, only finding a sleeping Judith in her cot, purring away. "Shit."

"_Mika._"

"Sorry."

"Check around the house," I tell her.

I check the basement and the kitchen and even the attic, but Lizzie is nowhere. "The window was open," Mika tells me. "Do you think she climbed out?"

I don't answer, and instead rush to the front door. But anxiety makes you clumsy, and I slip and slam myself right into the handle. The shooting pain erupts over my side from the healing cut, and I lie on the floor, gasping.

"Oliver!"

"_Ack – _shh, J-Judith's asleep," I groan.

"Are you dying?"

"I'm fine."

"You look like you're dying!"

"I'm – _ouch – _okay, promise. See?" I stand up again, quickly swinging the screen door open and forcing myself not to hunch.

"Lizzie?" Mika calls, following me onto the porch. Staring. Then I spot the eldest Samuel sister. Outside the fence. She checks over her shoulder, carrying a shoe box across the Grove. But she doesn't see us, disappearing past the outhouse.

"Come on," I urge, breaking into a jog as we follow Lizzie out of the property, adrenaline easing the throb in my side.

It seems like Lizzie is running too, because as we get past the outhouse, I only just spot her disappear behind the tree line heading back to the tracks.

"Where is she going?" Mika asks, taking out her gun.

I don't answer because I don't have one that makes sense, so instead, I take out my own gun. As I run, my dread builds, my breathing becomes laboured, and the hairs on my neck stand on end despite the fact that I am breaking a sweat. The pain in my side is nothing compared to the fear. It was my responsibility to take care of them for a few minutes, and I'm fucking up. I've left a baby alone in an unlocked house. I've let an eleven year old wander off on her own. And now, I'm running off to find her with her ten year old sister.

We find the tracks, looking exactly the same as we left it. I grimace as I hear the growling of the walker Tyreese had left here yesterday. But when my sight follows the noise, also hearing chuckling by this time, my whole gut barrels to my throat.

Mika suddenly grips my hand tightly when she sees her, too, knelt right in front of the walker, holding her hand out to it. I see the little grey mouse, squirming and squealing as she holds it from the base of its tail and hovers it to the walker's snapping jaws.

_Oh, no. She's not... She wouldn't..._

But she does.

Lizzie feeds the tiny rodent to the walker. Mika flinches, gasping and grabbing my hand with both of hers now, clinging to me as the small, frail bones crunch and snap between the walker's rotten teeth.

"Don't worry," Lizzie comforts it, and the walker growls and gargles and snaps. "I'll get you more."

"Lizzie?" Mika finds her tongue first.

She glances at us, puckering her lips to chew the inside of her mouth, neither in greeting or remorse or shock of the fact that she'd just gotten caught, just a simple gesture to wait for us to say something.

"Lizzie, what're you doing?" I ask, breathing heavily and giving the walker worried glances as it snaps its teeth too close for comfort at Lizzie's leg. She opens her mouth to answer me, but Mika interrupts her.

"When we were giving them names," she tells Lizzie, and I remember the walkers they were playing with at the fences back at the Prison. Nick. My gut does another knot. "We were just pretending things weren't bad. Things are bad – those things they're bad. They are. We can't pretend any more."

"I'm not pretending," Lizzie says. "You were," she looks at her sister. "I know... I can hear them."

I stare from her to the walker incredulously, wondering what the fuck it's telling her now. _**Oliver, don't. She means it. There's something not right about Lizzie and you being a sarcastic ass hole isn't going to help. **_I purse my lips and go to reach down to help Lizzie stand, but again, Mika's anger takes over.

"They wanna kill you!" she barely keeps from shouting.

Lizzie shakes her head. "They just want me to change." Her voice rises, hitches. "Make me be like them," she sits up a little and moves closer.

"Lizzie," I urge.

"Maybe I should chan-"

But then Lizzie extends her arm to the walker.

"Stop it!" I hiss, and I swat her hand away.

"No, Oliver!"

"What the hell're you doing?"

She sighs, and I lean back, thinking she'll answer me. But she doesn't, instead, the turns back to the corps, holding out her hand out. "I can make you all understand," she mutters.

"Lizzie!" Mika barks.

Before either child moves another centimetre, I refuse to bear this anymore and grab Lizzie's shoulders, pulling her away from it.

"Oliver, no! Stop!" Lizzie cries, as if I am doing something to hurt her.

"Do you have a death wish?!" I shouldn't be so afraid of her answer, but I am, suddenly and terribly.

But then I hear rustling, darting my head to look, startling when I see a singed and burnt walker stumble out of the tree line. My eyes widen and my breath hitches.

"Walker!"

Mika and Lizzie yelp, and the youngest sister begins to back away, wanting to retreat. But Lizzie doesn't move. "Lizzie, they're coming!" Mika yells at her sister.

I grab my gun and take aim, about to shoot, but my mouth falls open as three more walkers spill out of the tree line, quickening their dead pace as they see us. Another four follow them._ Mika and I can't take them all alone!_

"Lizzie!" I shout, grabbing her arm, pulling roughly, and with a gasp she snaps out of her daze and sprints with me and Mika down the track.

The walkers chase us, growling and burnt to a crisp, smoke still coming out of their blackened and charred skin. I can smell them, realising that they must've been in the fire that caused the smoke.

The turn off point to the Grove is up ahead, and the girl's almost miss it, but I grab the back of both of their tops and yank. "This way!" I shout at them.

They spin around and pelt into the tree line with me, and Mika lets out a scream when she looks back, realising that the short stop had caused the walkers to gain on us. My heart pounds as I run, gripping my gun and readying myself, dodging another walker as it pushes through a bush beside me.

I startle when someone screams. It's ear-splitting, and I look beside me, realising that Lizzie isn't there, and I screech to a stop, seeing a walker grabbing at the back of her tee. She tries to jump away from it but it rips into the fabric.

**PKOW!**

To my amazement, my bullet travels through it's brain and it falls to the floor behind her, dead. "GO!" I bellow, wrenching Lizzie to her feet and running behind her.

The wire fence into the Grove is still closed, so Mika and Lizzie launch themselves through. I aim to hurtle through behind them, but in Mika's rush she snags her leggings on the barbed wire and stumbles to the ground, stuck to the barbed wire with her leg still suspended like a roasting pork joint at a barbecue.

"OLIVER, HELP ME!"

"I got it! I got it!" But I don't have it, because I'm trembling, hearing the walkers as they growl and shuffle. But I'm not fast enough, and so a walker grabs me by the back of my shirt, somehow missing me with it's overgrown claws as it shoves me backwards. My gun flies out of my hand as I am wrenched to the ground. Somehow letting out a curse as it happens. But I fight against it, seeing another burnt walker as it comes to join it's friend in grabbing me. I feel like a row boat getting swamped by water. Only, the water is trying to eat me.

I'm not really sure how to describe what I do next. Instinct and adrenaline and fear can make a person do incredible things. Because I'm grunting, screaming, dreading the teeth that will puncture, but my leg comes up, kicking, connecting with rotten face, and my hand reaches out, feeling the rippled surface of my Glock handle, and then I am taking aim.

I was wrong about one thing.

The second walker didn't come for me, it went for Mika.

She screams as it grabs her foot. "LIZZIE!"

"MIKA!" Lizzie has her other foot, wrestling the walker.

Without considering the consequences, I aim my gun at the second walker instead, still holding back the first with a foot on each of it's crumbling shoulders, and it grabs at my legs, clawing at my jeans.

_**BANG!**_

The walker falls to the floor with a hole through it's ear, releasing Mika's leg, letting Lizzie grab her terrified sister and pull her up. I look back at the walker on me, seeing it about to take a chunk out of my ankle, opening its mouth and drawing back its neck, and I swing around, aiming.

Click–click.

My heart stops, almost as if it's trying to end my life before the walker can. I'm frozen, helpless, just a piece of shaking flesh waiting for its diners to come and feast, and two more close in on me. My eyes scrunch, anticipating the rotten teeth when they sink into my flesh, infecting me with the virus that will burn through my veins and turn me into one of them.

But that doesn't happen.

_**BANG!**_

I am splattered with cold gritty wet, and I open my eyes to see what used to be a skull, but is not an obliterated hole exploded by a gunshot, and I grimace, rolling the corps off of me and scurrying away on my back and heels and elbows.

"GET BEHIND US!" Carol bellows, shooting again at another walker as it makes for me. I clamber to my feet, adrenaline numbing my injuries as I leap through the fence and line up beside Carol and Tyreese, pulling Mika and Lizzie back with me.

Tyreese hands me a magazine, and without hesitating, I load my glock and we all shoot, one by one killing the walkers. The drop to the earth like rocks, and the noise is deafening. But after a tense moment, they begin to thin out, our five guns against –maybe– fifteen walkers proving to give us our advantage. So I keep shooting, taking no more that two or three shots per walker to get them down, better than I did at the Prison but still pretty pitiful, especially compared to Mika and Lizzie who take their walkers down with only one shot almost every time. But I think I'm too terrified to feel any kind of emasculation.

The final walker goes down from Lizzie's bullet. But even though the gunfire has stopped, the noise echoes through the woods for a few seconds. We all stand there, panting and rigid as we stare at the battle we've just won.

Lizzie starts crying, and Carol wraps her arms around her. "It's okay. You did it," she coos.

Mika leans on me and my arm curls around her shoulder, feeling weak and aching, squeezing when I feel her shaking, then, without another word, we all head back to the house, too out of breath and adrenaline pumped to talk yet.

When we get inside I leave my holster and gun on the table as Lizzie takes a seat in front of it, staring into nothing and losing herself in her thoughts. She needs her space, we all understand, so Carol goes to check on Judith. Tyreese goes to light the fire, and it _fwoomps_ to life. But then, when Tyreese stands. He freezes, his eyes fixing on me, suddenly making the whole room cold despite the warm flames by the inglenook.

I almost startle, staring back at him. I think for a moment that he is about to scold me for letting Mika and Lizzie leave the compound, and I open my mouth to apologise. But he speaks before I can say anything, his words raspy and filled with terror, making my blood run dry.

"Oh no..."

Have you ever felt that moment before you know something bad will happen? Like, when you see a glass at the edge of a surface, about to tip and smash on the floor. Or when you see a child running out into the road to retrieve their astray soccer ball, and you can see the car coming, but you're just there, frozen, unable to do anything other than witness...

Tyreese is looking at my stomach, and I suddenly become aware of the wet there.

At first, I just sigh, as if to say, _Oh, yeah... shit, I'm dying now, _and I frown, more at myself than anything, wondering how I'd let it happen, when it had happened, trying to remember the very moment that the teeth might have sunk into me, and then I dip my head to look, and I see the crimson circle spreading over my grey short sleeve. "No no no no," I'm whispering, dread and devastation threatening to engulf me completely. I'd start crying, but I don't see the point. If I'm infected then crying about it won't make a deference, and so I touch the red, and then I claw at it, desperately trying to rub the warm and spreading blood away. As if it will do anything now.

Mika had pulled away, tears falling from her eyes, her face contorting and she clasps her hands to her mouth. "You were bit?" she asks desperately, her voice cracking and cutting through the air like a knife.

Adrenaline poisons me, and I grab the hem of my top and pull. There is a pause, disbelief consuming me so badly that I can't even feel relieved, but then I do feel it, and I almost collapse with the relief. It's not a bite. But the movement and strain from earlier has caused my cut to break open again, and it's bleeding badly. I watch, making a chocking noise, an indescribable noise that I would find funny in any other circumstance, watching the thick stream of my blood run under the reddened bandage and soak into the hem of my jeans.

"Dammit," I mutter, trying to wipe it, but it is running too fast and as soon as I wipe it away it replaces itself faster, only resulting in the red getting all over my hands.

Then Carol crashes into the living room. "Where you bit?" Carol begs, kneeling in front of me. She'd heard Mika's crying, seen Lizzie's and Tyreese's stare, and the state I am in with the blood all over my abdomen and hands doesn't help Carol's terror.

"No, I'm okay. It's just my- _Ow,_" I wince as she lifts my bandage, and she lets go immediately, standing up.

"Sorry," she pants, relieved, as a cut is definitely better than a bite. "What happened?"

I curve my lips into the best reassuring smile I can muster in such a situation. "It's just my stupid cut."

She looks like she will sob with relief. But she takes my shoulder instead. "It's okay – Oh, I was so scared – C'mon... let's go get you patched up," she says, shaking her head slightly to clear it of her thoughts.

* * *

She'd tended to mine and Mika's injuries, as the little girl had scratched up her leg on the wire. My bandage needed changing, my wounds needed cleaning and disinfecting, which hurt, a lot. Having a stinging abdomen, lip, temple all at the same time isn't the best, but it's not the worst thing that can happen. She didn't bother to do anything with my hands because they are healed now, with only a few small, wavy scars scattered all over them.

Once Mika goes back to her sister, Carol goes and grabs a clean shirt from her bedroom and spends a few moments ripping and cutting it to size for me. Then she wraps it around my stomach, and my heart palpitates in fear when she has to lean closer, moving her arms around me to adjust the bandage.

I flinch, and without wanting to, hating myself for doing it, I step away and wince, pushing her hands off of me, gulping back the lump in my throat as Dan's voice mutters those words inside of my head. _"Stop your squirming." _and I shake my head, trying to clear it, clamping my eyes, hearing, _"Look at me, boy!"_ and his words repeat themselves, ringing through my ears.

"Oliver?" Carol whispers me back to reality, witnessing my turmoil.

"Sorry," I whimper like a child, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth as my stomach flips. "I'm sorry. I'm... I'm... I'm gonna yack."

She grabs a bucket, tossing the water out of the bedroom window and holding it out to me, and I slump to the floor, gagging, yacking into it. _Stop your squirming! Stop your squirming! Stop your squirming!_

Something touches my shoulder blade, skin on skin, and I flinch, throwing up more bile even though whatever it was had let go immediately. "Stop," I beg it frantically, wanting to die. "Please, s-stop."

"You're okay." I don't know why I didn't realise it was Carol. "You're okay, Oliver. I'm not gonna hurt you. I'd never hurt you."

I take deep breaths, listening, settling, letting Carol's words reassure me until I can nod.

"You're okay, sweetie."

I wipe my mouth with the edge of the old bandage, and Carol pushes the bucket away, waiting for me to face her, feeling embarrassed and small and weak and pathetic, focussing on the carpet under my palms, the bed frame behind my spine.

"You're okay."

"I know," I say, meeting her gaze again. "I know."

Eventually, I can stand up, and Carol continues with my bandage, wrapping it around me securely, pausing and waiting with that outstanding patience of hers whenever I wince or feel too uncomfortable.

"There. You should heal alright now. Jus' take it easy all right?" she says gently, pursing her lips into a smile.

"Thank you," I say, trying to smile back, hating that I'm still so afraid, hating Dan for doing this to me. But I am so grateful for Carol, Tyreese too. I adore and truly respect them both with more than I am even capable of understanding yet. Tyreese is my role model, and Carol is as good as a mother to me, and all I have been is a burden to them both. They gave me one job to do today; look after the girls, and I screwed it up. I wound myself up like this, Mika scared out of her wits, Lizzie catatonic and refusing to talk to anyone. "I'm sorry I let them leave," I continue aloud. "I know you trusted me to look after them."

"It's all right. They're kids. They're gonna run off. We should just be glad no one got..." she falters, realising that what she is about to say isn't true. "no one died," she changes her statement. "Who wasn't dead already, at least."

I smirk, sadistically amused. But my smile fades a little, remembering why Lizzie went out there in the first place.

"It's not your fault, Oliver..." she says. "You know? Did anyone ever tell you how much Carl used to sneak out o' the house?"

My heart aches, and suddenly, all the sadness that I have been trying so hard to bottle fights to be recognised. "Hershel did, once," I say, as another wave of guilt washes over me for my old friend. But I do well to keep my expression straight.

Carol tilts her head, and the corners of her eyes crinkle a little, noticing my sadness even with the front I am putting up. "I'm sorry..." she apologises, pausing a moment. "You meant a lot to a lot of people." I don't mean to grimace, understanding that she is only telling me this to make me feel better. Because I'm a child. Children need stories to stay happy. "Especially to Carl." I do look at her at that. "He looked up to you," she goes on. "If he was talking and smiling at the same time, it was because of you... And I know he means..." I wince. "_Meant,_ a lot to you, too," she pauses for a long time, saying her next words carefully and slowly. "You loved him, didn't you?"

I nod, without hesitating or caring what type of love she means. Because I know.

Carol smiles softly, nudging my hand. "C'mon, sweetie."

"Carol?" I begin, knowing that I have to tell her about what I saw Lizzie doing.

Carol turns to me, but I hesitate. "Oliver? Oliver, what is it?"

_**Tell her.**__ I don't know if I should. Maybe today was just a one time thing?__** What are you talking about. That doesn't matter, you need to tell Carol.**__ You sound like Carl._ _**Hey, fuck you. **_I sigh, twiddling my thumbs as I fight with my conscience, but relenting to it, I say, "When me and Mika found Lizzie today, she was at the tracks... Carol, she was f-"

"Carol?" Tyreese interrupts me, calling from the kitchen. Carol looks his way. "Shall we use up the firewood tonight or save some?"

"How much is left?"

"Few hours more?"

She glances back at me, but my conversation had floated away and I shake my head and smile. She turns back to Tyreese, "Use it up. It's gonna get cold. We'll find more tomorrow."

"Got it."

With another glance at me, and another smile from me to tell her I'm fine, she turns to leave. But she stops and turns to me again, almost bumping into me because I had followed her, but I step back just before she stands on my toes. "Listen, go change out of your clothes and wash 'em. Ty found some smaller clothes for you – they'll probably be too big." I am incredibly scrawny as of late. Lanky, might be a better word. Lanky and pimply and pubescent. "But it'll just be to wear for tonight until your clothes dry, okay?"

"Thanks. I'll clean up my yack, too."

"I can do it."

I grimace embarrassedly. "No, I got it."

Once I'd thrown out the yack and cleaned the bucket again, I dress. The clothes consist of a white, loose, long sleeve top and some black stretchy pyjama bottoms that I have to tie around me with some twine I'd found in one of the drawers. Back in kitchen, I use soapy water and the bucket -that I'd just thrown up in- to clean my usual clothes. When I finish and have hung my wet clothes up to dry in my bedroom, I take a seat on the couch next to Mika, facing the fire and letting it warm me up a little.

Lizzie is still not saying anything, staring into space as she sits shaking at the table with the unfinished jigsaw puzzle and my holster in front of her. I watch her for a moment, chewing my lip. _**Should have told Carol.**__ I know.__** Feel guilty yet?**__ But... maybe if we just give Lizzie time.__** You didn't answer the question.**__ She'll realise. She'll learn.__** Not an answer either. **_It's not unheard of for kids to go against the rules like Lizzie did. Even I'd be lying if I said that I had never teased one or two walkers through windows, or yelled at them from rooftops with Patrick. Maybe it's just part of being a kid now. And look at Carl; when he messed with that walker when he was a kid. _**Yeah. And look where that go him...**__ But it won't turn out like that though. __**Carol should know. Tyreese should too. **__It'll only scare them. They don't need that. Lizzie doesn't need that. Mika doesn't. It's better to leave it alone now._

I stare into the fire, pushing my thoughts to the back of my head, tiredly rubbing my bandage to subdue the aching. Mika leans on me, snuggling into my good side as I drape my other arm over her shoulder. Her breathing begins to slow and I can tell that she is exhausted, proven, because soon she simply falls asleep on me.

A little while later, when it has gotten dark and our only light source is from the flames of the fire and the lanterns, Tyreese returns from the kitchen. He and Carol were in there boiling more water. The man tries to talk to Lizzie, but the girl barely acknowledges him, so he gives up and plops himself in the armchair that he has kind of taken for his own now, since no one else has sat in it since we got here.

Pretty soon he falls asleep too. I'm surprised that I am not sleepy, but I think after today, sleep is going to be hard to come by for a few more hours at least. Despite this though, without realising, I do begin to slip off into unconsciousness, settling into Mika's warmth and not noticing my head drooping more and more as every moment passes. I am only snapped out of my daze again when Mika moves her head to look at me.

I jolt awake, drawing in a sharp breath through my nose and raising my brow, vaguely aware that I mumble something to do with pecans because for a moment I was imagining myself falling into a giant bowl of them, so disorientated and trying to recognise my own reality, I look back at her.

Mika giggles at me, before moving herself from under my arm and going to sit on the floor to play with Grazelda Gunderson - the doll, thankfully... not the walker.

"I had to help stop them."

I almost startle at Lizzie's voice a minute or so later and dart my head to look at her. Carol emerges from the kitchen and takes a seat beside her, exchanging a glance at me, then looking back to Lizzie. "Do you understand what they are now?"

"I know," she begins, turning to look at Carol. "I know what I have to do now," she says. "I know."

"It's ugly. An' it's scary. An' it does _change_ you..." There is a long pause, and I think of everything that I have been through since this started. How I have had to deal with the trauma of losing my real family, and then the guilt and sorrow of losing my new one, and how, without them, I could've so easily lost myself more than imaginable along the way. It's too easy to become a monster now, and if you let it, it can happen to anyone. Just like it did with those Claimers. "That's how we get to be here. That's... the cost. That's growing up now."

"I don't wanna hurt anyone," Mika mews gently. "I don't wanna be mean."

"You have to be sometimes," Lizzie comforts her sister. Batting her eyelids innocently. "But jus' sometimes."

She looks at me and lets a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. I return it, glad that she is finally coming to terms with how we have to live now. With no Prison or big metal fences to protect us, she needs to realise what has to be done to protect the people she cares about, and it seems that she finally might be.

Tyreese begins mumbling in his sleep again, but we don't wake him, knowing enough now to just let him ride his nightmares out on his own.

"You know," Carol says, "we have _a lot_ o' pecans here."

"Tonne," Lizzie jokes quietly.

"You getting' sick of 'em yet?" Carol asks all of us.

"Nope," Mika grins.

"I am," I say truthfully.

"C'mon, I got an idea," Carol says.

* * *

We're in the kitchen, cracking open as many pecans as we can fit onto the baking tray. I think Lizzie is finding the nut cracker a little difficult because she keeps cracking them open too roughly and the pieces fly everywhere. But it makes us laugh, so no one takes the nut cracker away from her.

"I used to make these with my grandma when I was little," Carol tells us. I search for the edible parts of the pecan that Lizzie had just exploded across the table and hand them to Mika.

She smiles as she dips them into the sugar and ground cinnamon that we found in the cupboards, placing them on the tray. "They smell good," she says, because the bitter sweetness of the pecans are definitely better than the burning-walker smell that is still lingering in the night air. Tyreese said that he would remove their bodies tomorrow morning.

"There you go," Carol praises us. "All right. I think you guys are ready to start doin' the cooking around here." She takes the tray to the oven, glancing at me expectantly as she turns around.

I shake my head. "Don't look at me. I'll burn the place down."

Carol grins knowingly. I was never a good cook. In fact, I'm terrible. Even at the Prison. Patrick and Carol controlled the cooking aspect of the kitchen. All I was good for was serving, washing up, and occasionally cutting up some fruit and vegetables… which isn't very promising, evident from the scar that I still have on my palm from cutting myself at Penelope's all those years ago when we were making the salad for her family.

"Who wants to put 'em in?" Carol grins at the girls, and they leap from their stools.

"Me!" Mika exclaims.

* * *

The Roasted Pecans were good. Not pudding or grapes good. But still good.

I'm feeding Judith her formula while Carol helps get the girls dressed into some pyjamas she found for them, they are too big for both Mika and Lizzie, but neither of the two complain.

Again, I take Judith in with me and the girls to our bedroom. But I don't tell Carol that I will take the baby back to her this time because we both know that I'll forget like yesterday. But like I knew she would, Carol just smiles and waves us goodnight.

The girls and I stay up for a little while, and I teach them how to play Eye Spy. So, using the light from a candle I lit earlier for our only light source, we all get into the double bed. Lizzie to the far left closest to the window, then Mika, then me sat up with Judith cradled in my arms, already asleep.

"Okay, Lizzie. You start," I whisper.

"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with... N," she says.

Me and Mika look around. "Night?" Mika asks.

"Nope."

I think for a long time, ignoring my smirk when Judith begins purring again. "Nature?" I ask.

"Nope," Lizzie says again, grinning.

"Ooh, knife?" Mika asks, seeing her and Lizzie's sheathed weapons on the bedside table.

"Knife begins with a K," I tell her quietly.

She frowns. "What? No it doesn't."

"Yeah, it's just a silent K. Hidden in plane sight, you know?" I say.

"Oh," Mika says. Then she grins. "Brain Box."

I laugh at her, and she giggles too, making her shoulders shake against the mattress.

"C'mon. N. N. You gotta keep guessing," Lizzie insists.

"Alright, alright," I grin, focussing. "Uh... N... N... uh, newspaper?" I ask, spotting the collection of old papers stacked on the chair by the window.

Lizzie sighs in defeat. "Yeah, you win."

"Mika, you spy," I say, giving my turn to her.

She sits up a little and searches around the room. "Okay. I spy on my little e-"

"_With,_" I interrupt to correct her. If she's going to play, she's got to do it right. Jesus christ, Oliver."It's, 'I spy _with_ my little eye'."

Mika giggles and rolls her eyes. "I spy _with_ my little eye," she starts over, mimicking my tone, "something beginning with C."

"Ceiling?" I say.

"Wrong."

"Candle?" Lizzie says.

"Nope," Mika answers, grinning.

"Chair?" I ask.

"Nope."

I frown in concentration, waiting for Lizzie to guess, but when I look at her I realise why she's not said anything, and I turn to Mika, whispering. "She fell asleep."

"Really?" Mika tries to sound surprised, but I can see that she's tired too, "'en you go. Guess 'gain," she insists, her voice becoming groggy and slurred in her sleepiness.

"Comforter?" I ask.

Mika shakes her head.

_Dammit. What is she spying? _I chew my lip as I think, readjusting Judith in my arms and pulling the blanket over me a little more as I feel the chill of the night.

"Uh, cold?" I kind of joke, knowing that I am wrong but saying it to take a chance regardless.

"Cold's not... something... you can see," she is barely able to form her sentence.

I breath a chuckle, suddenly realising that I am feeling happier than I have in a while. The last time I felt so relaxed and at home was with him. Then, suddenly, the happiness disperses so fast that it hurts. My smile fades and a lump forms in my throat, my sadness aching away in my chest and feeling like it is squeezing me too tightly.

"Carl," I say out loud without meaning to, knowing that he is not what Mika was spying at all either, and I look at her, my eyes welling, embarrassed for my verbal accident, but Mika didn't even notice.

She's asleep.

A tear rolls down my cheek and I wipe it quickly with my sleeve, leaning over to blow out the candle on the bedside table. The room falls into darkness, and I sink into the comforter with Judith resting in the gap between my ribs and arm.

I take a deep breath, annoyed when I find that my asthma is still making me wheeze a little. But I won't take my inhaler yet, it's not bad enough, and like Carol said; I should save as much as I can to make it last. But to be honest, I am too drained and exhausted and lazy to use it right now anyway.

So, in the second bedroom on the left, in this little old house on the Grove, a few minutes away from the train tracks, and a three or four day walk from Macon, Georgia, USA... I sleep. Mika and Lizzie beside me. Judith tucked between my arm and chest, asleep, as safe as I can make them all right now. In my last moments of consciousness, I wish with everything in me that we lose no one else. We've lost too many people we care about already. I don't know how much more we can take – how much more I can take – before I simply break into a million pieces.

* * *

Happy reading xx :)


	26. The Grove, Part 7: The Shirt

Re-edited: 29/08/2015

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Same old same old.

We wake up, cold and hungry. Dad and Michonne go to check the snares they caught the night before. A few minutes later they come back with nothing. We have a rationed amount of food Michonne and I found on that last supply run; running low. We could make it to Terminus (which is only three days away according to the signs) but only if we have one can of something a day between us.

So we eat our 'can of something each' - I got corn. But that's good because I like corn. We finish and collect all our cans to use for a perimeter fence later when we rest for the night, and then we get going along the tracks.

Just like always.

* * *

It's seven or eight miles along the tracks and we haven't stopped walking yet, and just as this infuriating fact is about to drive me completely insane... something changes. Finally.

Dad turns off the track at an upcoming crossroad. "It's getting colder," he states, looking back to us.

I purse my lips in minimal response. In truth, I'd been shivering all night and have been all of this morning, too, despite the constant walking. Though my lack of verbal response is out of laziness more than contempt. I'm not angry at Dad anymore. I'm just angry all the time. But that is something I just have to live with.

"We should find a store or somethin'," Dad continues, "get some warmer clothes – might be able to find some food, too."

"Alright," Michonne agrees, following him.

I linger on the tracks a moment, watching them walk away. I glance at the iron beams and wooden planks below my odd shoes, thinking about stepping off. But I hesitate, fearing that I won't be able to. After being on these tracks for almost four days now it's almost like if I leave them after this long I'll never be able to bring myself back to them again.

But Michonne glances at me and beckons me to hurry, so I take a leap of drained faith and step over the iron beams, following after them, glancing back at the tracks every few moments as if I'm worried they'll disappear before we come back.

Dad leads us a few miles towards a town I forgot to look at the name of. But I don't really care, I just know that it is about a two and a half day walk from Macon, and Macon is where Terminus is, and Terminus is where everything is supposed to be okay again.

We find a corner store, but we can see without even having to go in that it's been picked dry, so we move on, finding another shop a few blocks down; an Outdoors Store. It, too, has been looted already, but looks like it might have some warmer clothes and supplies left over that we can make use of.

Dad wraps on the door, and we wait for a few minutes. I'm leaning against the door, picking at a hole in my top by the time three walkers show up, slamming themselves against the surface beside me; one for each of us. I step back and watch them, tilting my head as I examine our _'competition'_ through the glass.

One is an overweight, (or maybe he's just bloated from decomposition) male walker, with a bald head and a gouged out eye. He's for Dad. The second walker is an old man, with straw-like grey hair on his chin and rotted flesh falling from his torso, he has a screwdriver stuck in the side of his neck. He's for Michonne. The third is a teenage girl with long, blond, blood-stained hair that falls past her lower back. She has a small collection of screwdrivers on her belt, and I make the assumption that she was the one who looted the store, but she must have gotten caught by these other two walkers in the process. My unqualified and ignorant detective skills say that the teenage walker -when she was alive- got bloater over there in the eye with her screwdriver, but didn't kill him, and then tried to take out oldie but missed his brain and got eaten by them both. She was probably pretty and kind and friendly before she was torn apart and infected, but now the skin on her cheeks sag and is torn up badly, and part of her scalp has been ripped out, exposing maggot infested bone and flesh underneath. Her left breast has either been eaten or has just fallen off completely, replaced with a gaping hole that exposes her crushed rib cage and unbeating heart. She's mine to put down.

I grimace without meaning to, wanting to feel bad for her and the other two walkers, but all I feel is hatred for the sickness that has killed and taken over all three of their bodies, and I wonder if the same thing had happened to him – if those men were cruel enough to leave his brain unharmed, unlike the rest of his body that they would have violated and murdered and. . . and they would've laughed, let him wake up from his terrible death, wander once more, dead but not dead forever.

"Carl?"

Michonne snaps me out of my intrusive thoughts, and I stare at her, feeling my whole body tensing and shaking. But I force myself to relax again and motion to the store. "Are... uh, are we gonna go in?" I ask.

Michonne and Dad watch me, and I watch them, and then they are nodding.

"What're we gonna do about the shots?" I ask. But they don't answer right away, worried about my behaviour. So I sigh impatiently. "The shots?" I ask again, frowning in annoyance now.

Dad tenses his jaw, but relents and motions to Michonne, who already has her katana out. "I'll distract 'em while Michonne takes 'em out," he says.

I roll my eyes, "I'm not sitting this out. I can get one of it's screwdrivers," I state, pointing at the teenage walker's belt.

"You're gonna get its weapon?" Dad cocks an eyebrow, shifting his weight on his hips.

"Yes," I confirm, gritting my teeth, annoyed by his lack of faith in me. "Let's go."

Dad looks like he will protest, but after everything we have been through he relents, knowing that I am capable enough. So, he suppresses his protectiveness and nods, grinding his jaw. "All right."

So I pull at the broken door and it gives a little resistance, but with another tug it opens with a crunch, and we go in, Michonne leading and me and Dad behind her. I head straight for the teenage walker, and she lunges for me, snapping her rotten teeth and extending her arms, ready to claw through my skin. But I dodge her, ducking under her grasping extremities and swivelling behind her, kicking the back of her knees. She falls to the floor with a growl, trying to turn over and come after me again. But I am too quick and I steal a screwdriver from her waist, and before she knows what has happened, I drive the thin metal through the back of her skull with a blood churning squelch.

She falls to the floor, dead, again.

I glance over my shoulder to Dad and Michonne, watching as Dad pushes the big walker into the wall and lets Michonne slice through it's skull. She pulls her blade out and Dad lets go of the walker, and it slumps to the floor with a heavy thump, a black pool of blood growing around its halved head. He looks over his shoulder to me, panting and visibly aching from his healing injuries. "Y'okay, Carl?"

I nod and look to the other side of the store. "I'll check for food," I say, heading to the tills to see if there are any of those decide-to-spend-a-few-bucks-on-your-way-out-on-useless-candy shelves. Michonne heads over to the clothes isle, looking like she is enjoying herself a little as she _'shops'_ for some new clothes. Dad goes to the back of the store to look for supplies.

I rifle through the candy isles. But it's all mostly just mints and gum. I find some breakfast bars and boiled candy and I grab them, not finding any more_ Big Cat _candy bars though, much to my dismay. But then I see the M&amp;M's sitting on the shelf next to the empty _Hershey's _bar shelf. I think of him. I don't know why. Association, I guess. But regardless of reason, my heart throbs and I close my eyes to stop the angry tears that form. My palm presses to an M&amp;M's packet as it sits on the shelf, debating weather or not I want to take it and hearing the crackling from the wrapper as my fingers move against it. But my hand thinks on its own and closes around the wrapper possessively. I stuff it into my jeans pocket, somehow feeling like the M&amp;M's are too sentimental to be put in my supply bag with all the other junk in there. So I open my eyes again, and I can't stop the tear that rolls down my cheek, so I wipe it away and ignore the ache in my throat.

Then there is rustling behind me, and I spin on the spot, startled and annoyed and thinking that it is Dad spying on me. But it's just another lurker. He's been eaten so much that only the head and upper torso has survived its feasting. I walk over to him, quickly plunging the screwdriver through it's skull, grimacing when a chunk of his scalp rips off as I pull it back out. But I feel the wiry, blond hair tickle my thumb as it clings to the flesh around the screwdriver.

"Ugh!" I yelp, flinging the screwdriver across the floor with a messy _splat!_ "Gross," I groan under my breath, stepping over the walker's body and heading back over to Michonne in the clothes section, deciding I'll leave the screwdriver.

She's searching through the shirts section with a dark blue hoodie draped over her arm. "Here," she says when she sees me, handing the hoodie over, "found this for you."

I purse my lips in thanks, (still a little grossed out) putting my supply bags and Sheriffs' hat on the floor and pulling on the hoodie.

Michonne examines me, rubbing her chin and nodding in approval as I try to tidy my hair a little, but eventually giving up and just hiding it under my hat. "Look at you," she says quietly, smiling.

"Um hm, thanks," I say sarcastically, raising my brow and slinging my supply bags back over my shoulders, sure I look great with a clean jumper on while everything else on me is absolutely filthy.

Michonne chuckles and goes back to looking for more clothes, pulling a cream jacket off the hanger and holding it against her body to see if it'll fit. She turns to me, pouting her lips and raising her brow, posing in jest. "What'd'ya think?" she asks.

I smirk, shaking my head and shrugging. "I don't know," I say, cursed with complete indecisiveness on the topic of fashion, much to her dissaproval. "What? I don't."

She scoffs. "You're as hopeless with clothes as Ol..." Her mouth closes before she says his name, and I stare at her, almost craving to hear it again even though I know it'll hurt. I almost ask her to say it. I almost ask her to bring him back from the dead. But I keep my mouth as shut as Michonne keeps her own, letting the beginning syllable of his name linger in the air like a ghost. Michonne breaks the quiet when it becomes too intense, clearing her throat before she does. "I... I was gonna get rid of the shirt," she says quietly, pulling at the hem of the white, oversized shirt that he gave her the day he died, "but I jus'... couldn't. You know?"

I nod, tensing my mouth and not really knowing what else to do as I try to keep my emotions invisible, but I can feel the tears welling, the hiccup in my throat. Dad emerges around the corner stuffing some matches into his supply bag, he sees us, but he hangs back, not wanting to disturb mine and Michonne's conversation.

"Don't get rid of the shirt," I tell Michonne.

Michonne nods, pointlessly sentimental, but it doesn't matter.

She steps over to me and puts her hand on my shoulder, before doing something she has never done to me before and leaning forward and kissing the top of my head. I close my eyes, feeling the rim of my hat bend to her will and wanting to bawl my eyes out into her, wanting to collapse right here and break into a million unfixable pieces across the floor. But over my sadness, all I can think is how much I appreciate her. So I squeeze her arm, and she leans away again, smiling softly at me.

"C'mon," she motions back to Dad, and he nods to her behind my back, thanking her and thinking I didn't notice his gesture, and even though I do, I ignore it, and the three of us head out of the store together.

"What did you both get?" I ask, wanting to have something to distract the pang in my gut.

"I got some string for the perimeter fences. Thought we'd start sleeping a little off the track – we'll have more cover in the trees at night," Dad answers, "an' I got some matches, torches, batteries... thought I could use the radio in there, but I put it back - didn't see the point."

Something rings in my memory, and it's on the tip of my tongue, but Michonne speaks. "I found this," she says, flicking the collar of the cream jacket she took. "And Carl's jumper."

Dad and I smirk at her, knowing that she wants a little more enthusiasm from us than we are offering, and she scoffs in annoyance when we don't give it to her.

"I also found some warmer socks an' some underwear for you both," she says, letting her dissatisfaction go.

"Thank you," Dad says.

We keep walking, and eventually find our way back to the tracks.

"See?" Michonne smiles at me knowingly, and I frown at her, wondering what she is talking about, and she motions with her head to the train track. "It's still here."

I look away, because truthfully I am ridiculously relieved to see that the track is still here despite the fact that I always knew it would be. I wonder how she knew I was worried about such an idiotic thing for a moment, but then I realise that Michonne knows me like family, like a mother, and it has taken me a long time to accept and appreciate that. After losing my own mom, I'd never dreamed that I could care about another person like that again. I love Michonne, and I know that she'll never replace my mom, because no one could, and I'll never love anyone like I loved... like I always will love Oliver. But Michonne and Dad are all I have left now, and I won't forget that. I _can't_ forget that.

So, we step back onto the tracks, continuing towards Terminus.

* * *

**Notes**

**Preview:** In the next chapter, we will be back with Oliver, and Lizzie shocks them all with the decision she makes. Hopefully it wont exactly be shocking to you, since... you know... you watched the episode... and if you didn't watch it then I suggest you do because it is incredible! And if you won't watch the episode then get out of here because why are you even reading this story in the first place! :)

Happy reading xx


	27. The Grove, Part 8: Mika, Open Your Eyes

Re-edited: 31/08/2015

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"Mika!"

She's writhing, gasping, hurting.

"Mika, no! No! No, no, no. Mika."

Blood, so much blood. It pools under her, smears over my hands and her clothes, more and more coming no matter what I try to do to stop it.

"Mika, please. Please, please, no."

* * *

"Wake up, Oliver."

I roll back into reality. A little to my dismay because I was having a pleasant dream about Carol's grandma teaching me how to cook. We were making chocolate covered roasted pecans. Carl was there, too, which didn't seem strange to me for some reason. Carol's Grandma kept scolding me for being so reluctant to cook, and she kept telling Carl what a nice boy he was for helping her. But after a while, when they both convinced me to make an effort, I found that I was enjoying it and that I liked Carol's Grandma. It was strange though, because she looked and sounded exactly like Carol, but Carl and I knew she was her grand mother. I'm not sure how; we just knew. But it doesn't matter anyway, it was only a dream.

"C'mon, wake up." Mika's groggy voice again, along with an irritating poke to my forehead. I open my eyes. She's still sprawled next to me, poking me on the forehead near my temple. I gently brush her hand away, worried that it will hurt with my injury, but I realise that there is none, thankfully.

"We should get up soon," she says, closing her eyes again in spite of her words, Grazelda squashed under her cheek.

I shift my arm, suddenly sitting bolt upright when I realise Judith isn't here. "W-where is she?"

"With Carol," Mika mumbles, eyes closed, a hand rested over her forehead, palm up. "She came in a... a minute ago... and," _–__she yawns–_ "told me to wake you."

Lizzie is still asleep. I sigh, empathetic for the two exhausted children, deciding to leave them asleep for a few minutes longer and guessing from what Mika said, Carol wanted _me _to wake, not the girls.

So, once I dress, I leave the bedroom, finding Carol sat on the couch with Judith, feeding her a bottle of formula. I presume Tyreese is disposing of the burnt bodies, and I glance out of the window but I don't see him, only the burnt and charred corpses scattered by the fences.

"Where's Ty?"

"He's still sleeping," Carol answers, and Judith looks up to me, her little hand extending for me, but she soon relents and goes back to her bottle.

"Do you want me to go start on moving the bodies?" I offer.

"No," Carol says gently. "You're not strong enough; not after opening your cut again."

"Okay..." I mumble, joining her on the couch. "Carol?" She looks up from Judith. "What did you want me for? Mika said you asked for me."

Carol sighs, holding my gaze. "I wan'ed'a talk to you, 'bout... stayin' maybe. I was talkin' to Ty 'bout it yesterday, and, well... wanted your thoughts?"

"Stay? Here?"

"Yeah," Carol nods, pursing her lips. "Do you like it here?" I know my answer, though, debate with myself whether or not I should voice it. "Oliver?"

"I-I do." It's the truth, but I'm frowning. "Girls do, too."

"We could build this place up. Fix the garden, maybe, plant more."

"We could find a car as well," I say, trying not to frown, and even though I succeed, it tugs to show itself again. "We should have one, ready for a getaway if we ever needed to."

Carol watches me. "I'll talk to Ty."

My head dips. "Cool."

"We can still go to Terminus," she says, noticing my conflict. "One day. When we're ready."

I look at the burnt out fireplace, pulling at my beanie hat only to realise that I'm not wearing it, so instead, I chew my nail, something I have never gotten into the habit of doing before, so I quickly stop, tapping my fingers against my leg instead. The truth is, I don't know when I'll be ready to go to Terminus. The idea of getting there and not finding the rest of our group – not finding Carl...

"You still think they're dead, don't you?" she says gently. Then he brow arches. "You still think _he's _dead... Carl."

I close my eyes, because they're welling at his name. "I..." I mumble, my voice breaking. I look at Carol, and she looks so sad that I have to look away to answer. "I really don't know anymore."

"It's okay to be afraid," Carol says. "It's okay to be scared."

"I am," I whisper immediately. "Carol... I'm terrified."

I want so much to get to Terminus and find Carl and Rick and Michonne and everyone else there, alive and healthy. But I know that if we do get there and it's overrun, or they aren't there... I know they'll be dead. Even if they just hadn't found the tracks, they'll be as good as dead. It's only a matter of time when you're on the road before you're torn apart, whether it be by the dead or the living, it's what always happens. We need a sanctuary, and unless we all find one there's no place to be safe. Not anymore.

Carol places her hand on my shoulder. I almost startle, and all she says is, "Me too," and it's all I need to hear.

Then Mika emerges from our bedroom, still half asleep, clutching Grazelda Gunderson under her arm. She snuggles up next to me, and I chuckle at her, letting her rest her head on my chest, my chin on top of her head. "Morning, Mika," I say, pulling the couch throw around her, and she mumbles back to me but I don't understand it, instead and smirk and tap against her small shoulder.

"I'm glad you're comfortable with them," Carol says, and I look up to her. "You're so nervous sometimes, you know?"

To be completely honest, I only just notice. Any type of physical contact with others usually turns me into a trembling mess, but I hadn't even thought about it with Mika and Lizzie. Like Carol says, I am just comfortable with them.

"You're like a big brother to her," Carol goes on, motioning to Mika. "Lizzie, too. It's good to see 'em look up to you like they do."

I see the child smile against my shirt, eves-dropping, and I smirk. "Hmm," I say, "they're like the annoying little sisters I never had." Like I knew it would, this earns me a reaction, suddenly getting a playful jab to my rib from the child. "Ouch!" Se looks worried, but I'm grinning despite the ache. "Knew you weren't asleep."

* * *

"Stop bleeding. Please? Mika, please?!"

She tenses, and another well of blood spills out of her.

"No, no, no, no, no."

* * *

Carol and Tyreese have gone hunting. We'd all planned to have breakfast when they get back. Leaving me to babysit the girls. _"__H__ave a day to rest after how brave you were yesterday,"_ Carol told Mika, then asked me, _"__Y__ou alright stayin', too? I want you to focus on healing."_

"What were you spying, Mika?" We'd decided to leave Lizzie to sleep and go out to the shack. Mika and I'd set a blanket on the ground for Judith, and the baby is picking at the blades of grass that poke over the edge of the fabric, mumbling babily to herself. I'm sat on the small, worn down, old fashioned tractor parked and abandoned next to the shack entrance, looking out over the Grove, picking at a weed that has grown from the bonnet of the dead vehicle. "Last night, I mean. What was the 'C' for?"

Mika looks up to me from Judith, the braid Carol had done for her earlier hanging over her shoulder. "Oh. It doesn't matter," she says. "You can't see 'em right now anyway."

I frown; her words only increasing my curiosity rather than relieving it.

"Are you worried about them?" she asks me.

"Um. No, actually." It's true, for once. Actually, I'm not worried at all. For once I'm not worried and I'm not hurting and I'm not breaking.

I'm just... being.

"Me, too," Mika smiles.

The silence seems to mix into the noise of the woods, merging with the air and the leaves and the grass and the insects and the birds like a song. I let myself enjoy it. I roll my head back to rest it on the small, cracked wind screen of the tractor, staring up at the sky, squinting from the sun as it beams down on me and warms my skin, soaking into me, as if I'm a solar panel using the light to make energy. Only, the energy, it's more like a soothing feeling of slow and steady healing, as if I am being revived, regenerated... and I don't want it to stop. I suddenly think of something, pulling my head from the glass to look at Mika.

"Constellations."

My voice interrupts the noise of the woods, letting it scatter around us like fleeing wildlife. Mika frowns, but then, as I'm blinking away the blinding dot burned into my retinas, she giggles, understanding my anonymous outburst in a way only a little sister could.

"Yeah!" she confirms, holding Judith's hand; the baby's whole hand wrapped around her thumb. "How'd you know?"

"You said you can't see them any more." I glance up at the sky, seeing no stars there. "Can't see stars in daytime."

Mika laughs.

"Do you like astronomy then?" I ask. _**S**__**cience class **__**and astronomy are**__** kind **__**of**__** the same thing, right?**_

Mika nods, joining me on the tractor bonnet, and I have to help pull her up. "Went on a trip for school once to watch the stars. It was fun."

I smile smugly, feeling my ego grow ever-so-slightly. "Which constellation's your favourite?" I ask, stretching my arms out in front of me. But I wince in pain when the cut on my side stretches the ripped skin, so I drop my arms, letting my ego deflate a little.

"I like, Orion's Belt. Pegasus... an' Draco, the Dragon - he was the monster with all the heads that Hercules turned to stone by showing Medusa's head to it," she tells me enthusiastically.

I smile and nod, pretending that I know the Greek Mythology better than I really do.

"What's your favourite?" she asks me.

I shrug. "I've never really thought about it... The Big Dipper, I guess?" It was actually just the first constellation I thought of.

She smiles, resting her head against the wind screen and closing her eyes. "I read a story about a star. _Stardust._.. It's about a star - she falls from her home in the heavens and gets hunted by an evil witch, and a selfish prince, 'cause they want to take her heart for themselves to live forever on its magic... but a boy finds her instead. A whole load of other stuff happens after that, too. But, in the end, she and the boy fall in love, and they find their way back up to the heavens again, back home... The star gives him her heart, and they live as two stars, together... forever." She's smiling, opening her eyes and searching the bright sky, as if she's looking for them.

"Do ya see 'em?" I ask sarcastically, faking a southern drawl for my own amusement.

Mika looks at me and smirks. "_No,_" she says. "But I _can _see Venus."

I furrow my brow in disbelief, looking up. "In the daytime?"

"Look," Mika points up at the sky to the right and just above the tree line. "You can still see it in the daytime sometimes."

I search for it, squinting as I follow her finger. Then I spot the planet; a tiny white dot in the blue sky like a living pin prick. Invisible to anyone who isn't looking for it. Hidden in plane sight. Somehow giving me a sense of appreciation to be lucky enough to notice it. I almost forgot that it still isn't just Georgia left. There's a whole world out there. A whole solar system. A whole universe! With no walkers or people or sadness or death. Just unconditional and limitless space and matter.

"Cool," I breath a chuckle.

"Wish I was a star," Mika utters. "So bright and beautiful. So free... I like to think Mom an' Dad're up their, too - two stars lookin' down on us, keepin' watch over us... like the two characters in the story. Mom an' Dad, together forever." She glances at me, her smile a little sadder than before. "Oliver? Do you think that's what they're doin'? Keepin' watch over us?"

I sling my arm over her shoulder, and she rests her head on my chest, burying her hands in my flannel shirt to warm them a little. "I don't know, Mika. But I like to think so... I think we all deserve someone lookin' out for us right now." _Except me..._

Mika nods into my shirt, absentmindedly playing with the button on the hem of it. "Me too."

I'm frowning at the ground, pushing away the ache in my gut, and just then, we hear the familiar creak of the screen door opening across the Grove, and Lizzie's sleepy form emerges.

"Mornin'," she mumbles, tucking her shirt behind her knife and gun, holding Mika's sheathed knife in her other.

"Good morning," I smile at her.

She smiles at me, before handing Mika her weapon. "You left it inside. Carol told us to keep 'em on us all the time."

Mika smiles, leaning off of me to buckle her sheath around her waist, then sitting back and patting the small space on the bonnet next to her for her sister to sit, and Lizzie smiles and sets herself next to us, and the three of us look out over the Grove together, listening quietly to the natural serenade mixed with the quiet mumbling of Judith as she occupies herself on her blanket, playing with a pecan she'd found.

"Wanna keep playing Eye Spy?" Mika asks.

Lizzie and I nod. "What letter was it you were spyin' again?" Lizzie asks.

"Oliver guessed it a minute ago," Mika informs Lizzie. "It's his turn now."

I smile at her and me and the girls continue our game for a while. Guessing 'B' for birds, 'P' for pecans, 'G' for grave, 'S' for smoke, 'R' for rot. Lizzie glances at me a little while later when Mika had just guessed Judith's blanket that I had spied. "Where's Carol an' Ty?" she asks, puckering her lips to chew them.

"Hunting. We're gonna have a nice meal tonight; venison, some roasted pecans, some more peaches," I say, letting my stomach talk for me. "I'm gonna wait until they come back to eat, but if you're hungry now Carol said we could have some of the pecans from last night?"

"Yeah. I'm a little hungry," Lizzie under-exaggerates, because we know she -and everyone else- is hungry all the time, so by _'a little hungry'_ she really just means, _'almost close to starving'_.

I slide off the tractor bonnet. "Okay. I'll go grab the pecans – back in a sec. Keep an eye on Judy for me," I say, although I know they will regardless I tell them to or not.

"I forgot to get your gun," Lizzie says.

"I'll get it," I reassure her. I didn't bring it out because I've already got my knife.

* * *

My holster was on the couch. The pecans were on the table. It was as I saw at the woollen Grazelda Gunderson on the inglenook of the fireplace that I remembered I'd left my beanie in the bedroom. It wasn't in the sheets, or on the dresser or bedside table. _Under the bed? _So I looked, and there was a lot under there, and so I pulled it all out. The fold-up stepladder, the white paint cans, cables. Until I spotted the grey worn fabric behind the shoe box. It must've fallen while I slept.

But as I crawl under, reaching, that I knock the shoe box with my knuckles.

It squeaks.

"Eh!" I leap out from under the bed, cringing and wincing. "_OhmyGod!_" Heart pounding, I clutch my beanie hat to my chest, as if it will save me when the box leaps out of cover and tares into my flesh, and I startle again when it rustles and lets out a high pitched squeal, and then another accompanying it. _WHAT THE FUCK!? _But upon realising that the shoe box isn't actually alive and about to tare my face off, I slowly and carefully reach back under the bed, feeling kind of like a wimpy douche bag.

Heart pounding and grimacing in confusion, I pull the box out from under the bed, hearing the squeaking accompanying the sound of the cardboard as it slides over the wooden floor. _What the hell? _I gingerly pull off the lid, and look. Then the lid snaps shut, and I wince, totally confused at what I've just seen. Then I open it again, staring, counting seven live mice in total of all colours.

"What?" I mutter; unbearably confusion by the grey and black and brown and cream and white fur that seems to jumble together into one creature, the mice falling over each other to get as much distance from me as they can. Then I put the lid back on the shoe box before any escape, pulling on my beanie hat with hands that I only just realise are trembling. _I__'ll set__ them free, _I decide. _From the show box... because they were in the shoe box... Because... I-I don't know..._ I stand up, wincing and hurting. But when I turn to the door, already close to panicking, I near enough jump out of my own skin when I run right into Mika.

"Gyaah!"

"Please don't tell!?" she begs, grabbing my arms as I clutch the shoe box in my hands. I almost stumble backwards, and the mice shriek.

"Mika!"

"I'm sorry!"

I'm breathing heavily, doubling over, catching my breath, not up for this. Not up for all the scares in one morning, and I have to bite back my curse. "Shi – eesh... What?" I order, but she stays silent, staring at me desperately. "Mika, what the heck is this?"

"Please? Don't tell?" she begs again, looking over her shoulder. Lizzie isn't in here.

"Why have you got mice under our bed?" I insist, frustrated.

"I didn't," she whispers, shaking her head, letting go of my arm. "Please? She doesn't know that I know about 'em. She'd be mad at me if she knew I knew."

I frown at her. "Mika. Just, calm down and answer me," I say, quiet now. Mika gulps, her eyes darting at the box when it squeaks again. "Why is there a shoe box full of mice under our bed?"

"Lizzie finds 'em," she mews. "She keeps 'em for the walkers."

My expression drops, my mouth stuttering, trying to decide what question to ask next out of the hundred that are barrelling around in my mind. "That... That's w-what she was doing yesterday, wasn't it?" I ask finally.

Mika nods, scuffing her shoes on the floor. "I know she's not suppose to but... she doesn't understand... I don't know how to make 'er... I don't know how to make her see it all like she's suppose to."

"Mika," I mutter, placing the shoe box on the bed, and she is suddenly hugging me, and she starts crying, and so I hug her back tightly, kissing the top of her head.

"I don't know what to do, Oliver," she whimpers into my front.

"It's okay. Mika, it's all right," I coo, stroking her hair out of her tearing eyes. She hugs me tighter, burying her face into my top, and I have to hold back my wince when her nose presses on the place where my open cut is, but I bear it, knowing that Mika needs my consolation right now. "Lizzie's a big girl. She'll be fine, and so will you. Carol might be able to talk to her?"

"Please don't tell," she mumbles desperately.

"Mika, I've got to," I admit truthfully.

She pulls away and pouts desperately. "No! Please, Oliver," she cries, grabbing at my arms and pulling at them, close to having a tantrum.

"Listen to me," I reason, keeping myself steady against her tugging. "Maybe it's for the best. I don't know how to help Lizzie either. But Carol and Ty're clever, and Carol's good with knowing things. Carol knows everything, doesn't she?"

Mika sniffs as she settles, and finally gives me a reluctant nod.

"So maybe she can help Lizzie? Maybe if Carol knew what Lizzie is doing... and, talked to her about it... maybe Lizzie could get better." Mika doesn't say anything, but I can see that deep down past her sisterly protective instincts, she agrees with me. So I look at the box on the bed again. "Lizzie doesn't need to know I found it yet - I can go tell Carol and Ty now and let them deal with it better. Yeah?"

Mika nods again, still pouting a little.

"Okay. Go sit with Judy and Lizzie. I'll go find Carol and Ty. You don't have to say anything. Just be there for your sister, maybe play another game of Eye Spy or something? Okay?"

"Okay," Mika agrees, taking my hand.

* * *

I find Carol and Tyreese sooner than I thought I would. "That's the deal right?" I over hear Tyreese talking, and I slow my pace, watching them curiously, my hand coming up to touch a pecan tree. "The people who're livin're haunted by the dead... We are who we are... an' we do what we do," he says, turning to look in my direction, and I quickly dart behind the pecan tree before he sees me, flattening my back to it. "'Cause they still here. In our heads. In the forest... Whole world is haunted now... an' there's no getting' out o' that. Not until we're dead."

I know that I shouldn't be eves-dropping, and I don't mean to. But for some reason my body won't move to reveal my cover. I want to to hear this – _need_ to.

"Tyreese?" Carol says, almost inaudibly to my intruding ears. "Maybe they're not haunting us. Maybe they're just teaching us. Helping remind us so-" Carol's voice hitches, the noise you make when you're trying to do everything you can not to cry. My heart aches for her. "-so that we can live with what we have to do."

"Hey," Tyreese mutters to her. "Don't you ever be ashamed of who you are, Carol. You did right by those girls. Saved that boy's life, brought him back again after what he'd been through."

I hadn't considered Carol telling Tyreese what I had told her, and at first I'm defensive, but I soon realise that I'm just relieved more than anything. I trust Tyreese as much as I trust Carol.

"You did right by everyone," he finishes to her.

I peek around the tree, seeing Tyreese pull Carol into a hug, and I have to wipe my eyes, only just realising I was crying as go on my way back to the house, alone, deciding that right now is not the time to interrupt them.

* * *

It started out as talking, that's what I'd thought, at first, ambling back towards the shack, my sights trained on the pecan scattered floor. But I notice some disturbance in their voices. Mika and Lizzie's. I think for a moment that they are having a small argument, with hissing tones and breathy gasps of annoyance, but... it's different. It's panicky and eerie, and it gives me a horrible feeling deep in my gut.

But then I hear Mika.

"Lizzie... what're you doing?"

My head snaps up from the woods' floor.

"It's okay," Lizzie says.

"Lizzie," she breathes, alarm rising in her voice. "I don't wanna play this game anymore."

I furrow my brow, instinctively quickening my pace around the over grown garden to see the place I left the girls at by the shack. But my breathing catches and my eyes widen as they find the two children. I see Lizzie; her spine and arms rigid, and she is sat cross-legged on the floor beside the blanket Judith is still on. It takes me a moment to realise that Mika is sat in her sister's lap, facing the same way with her back to Lizzie's stomach, and Lizzie is holding her, gripping around her chest and stopping her from moving, and Mika's arms are up, gripping her sister's biceps, pulling at them like she'd trying not to but can't help it.

"Lizzie," she squeaks submissively, the fear rising, her knees buckling as she tried to push herself away. "Lizzie. Stop it! I don't like this game," she mutters, her voice shaky and spine-chilling, and then she sees me. "Oliver!" she calls, relief flooding her voice.

"Mika? Liz-" I begin, completely confused. But I stop my words when I see the knife in the eldest Samuel sister's hand. But even then, I don't put two and two together. Why would I? In what fucked up mess does this kind of thing really happen? So... just like in the suburb house when Dan grabbed me and forced me into the utility room, and just like when The Governor attacked Michonne and I saw for that single moment as she lay still on the earth in front of me...

I don't react quick enough.

Before I even make it another step, still yards away from the fence, and before Mika even knows what has happened, Lizzie's hand comes down. I hear it. The distinctive _shuck_ as metal impales skin, and Lizzie's knife is lodged through Mika's abdomen.

Mika makes a noise, like a strangled gasp or whine, so quiet and delicate that I think it is only my imagination. But it rings in my ears, sending every nerve in my body into haywire, screaming for me to stop hearing it, to stop seeing what I am seeing. But I heard her, and I hear the muttering from Lizzie. "It's okay to change. It's okay to change." and I see Mika stare incredulously at the knife handle that sticks out of her stomach, as though she doesn't believe that it is really there.

Then Lizzie shimmy's herself from behind her, kneeling in front of her and placing her hand on the wound, pulling the knife out, and Mika doubles forward into hers arms, gasping and trembling and cupping her gut helplessly as her blood pools into her palms.

"It's okay to change, Mika."

I am beside Mika without realising I had even moved yet. I don't feel my body or what it is doing, but I know I am crying, mumbling, frantically pulling her to me. I hear Lizzie trying to talk to me, but I can't make out the words as my heart thunders inside of my body, throwing my blood around inside of me and deafening me to anything outside. Noises fall from my mouth, whimpering and murmuring, and Mika is wincing, crying out when it hurts.

"Mika!" I pant, my voice echoing and distant in my ears. "Mika! D-don't! W-wait! L-look at me!" I beg, not knowing what I am even asking for as I press onto her wound with my shaking hands, wincing as her warm blood instantly soaks my skin.

Mika grabs for my shirt, staining the fabric red, gasping, her body convulsing in my arms, and she splutters for air, struggling to breathe.

"Mika, no. No, don't! God, stop! Please?" I cry, cry and cry and cry, tears streaming from my eyes as I put as much pressure on her wound as I can, doing it only because I remember seeing someone do the same thing in a stupid movie.

"Don't worry, Oliver. She'll be alright," I hear Lizzie behind me. "She just needs to change."

"Wh-what did you do?" I plead hysterically, seeing too much red grow too fast up my arms, keeping my shaking hands pressed onto her wound. "Oh God, Mika!"

She stares at me, silently begging me to help her, to save her. But I don't know what to do! She's dying! She's fucking dying! Another cry escapes me, racking my lungs, wincing. So much blood.

"I didn't hurt her brain. She'll be alright now," Lizzie says.

Mika is terrified. I've never seen fear like this, from a child. It's unbearable. "Mika? D-don't bleed! P-please, stop!" I beg uselessly, watching the scarlet circle grow and grow without slowing, no matter how much I ask it to. But Mika cries out in pain and I let go of her wound, knowing that I am only hurting her, and so, intolerably helpless, I scrunch my eyes shut, hearing Mika's swallowing breath hitch, and I wince when her blood covered fingers graze weakly over my cheek and I open my eyes again.

"Ol...iver... H... hel-p, Oli- Ol..." I know that she is pleading for her life, the life I know I cannot save.

"Mika, it's okay," I mutter to her. "Mika, li-listen to me, o-okay?" I whisper, feeling like I'm strangling myself as I try not to cry.

Mika winces, scrunching up her eyes. A tear runs down the side of her face, but somehow she nods, making a whimpering noise in confirmation to me.

"Mika, I'm h-here. Listen t-to my v-voice," I breathe, hiccuping, stroking her temples with my thumbs and feeling her slowing heartbeat against my skin. My heart breaks for her, the tiny shards of it feeling as if they are tearing through my lungs and rib cage, falling out of my skin and scattering around us both.

Mika closes her eyes, nodding, crying.

"Shh. It's okay," I coo, my voice a soft whisper and my face dipped close to her forehead. "Calm down... you're gonna be alright. You're gonna be fine. Carol and Ty'll be back soon. They'll help you and... a-and we can make more roasted pecans. We can finish the puzzle. You just gotta c-calm down, Mika." I know I'm lying. But I don't want her to be afraid. I don't want her to be scared. "Shh."

My tears fall on her pale skin. I try wiping them for her, but I just wipe blood on her. My head rolls back, trying to calm my breathing as I gently run my thumbs over Mika's temple, smearing more blood but with no alternative. Then I see Venus, the tiny white dot in the sea of blue above, watching over us.

I look back at Mika, and she's still. "Mika?" I whimper, a wave of devastation washing over me. But she moves slightly, opening her mouth to struggle to take a deep, laboured breath. I sob a sigh of relief and agony.

"Mika, open your eyes."

Somehow, she does as I ask, meeting my gaze. Her blue eyes sparkle with her tears.

I look up, "Mika, look at the star. Look at Venus."

"It's... it's not... a s-star."

She trembles, and the red grows. A choke forces its way out of my lungs into something like a wail and a laugh. Too devastated and mortified and amazed to react to her in a way that makes sense. "Sorry," I apologise, and then Mika smiles. Even as she's dying, and she doesn't look away from the tiny planet. She blinks slowly, close.

"That's it, Mika. Just pretend you're floating up to it," I whisper to her, and her hand tenses on my shirt collar, silently asking me to keep talking. "You can live up there, too, if you want. Bright and beautiful and free... Like the characters in your book. You can see your parents again... f-forever together.

I'm not sure the exact moment it happens. I've never seen someone die like this; this close. It's slow, but all at the same time; her mouth relaxes, her smile fades, and her breathing softens until it isn't there at all, and the light in her innocent eyes disappear and seem to switch off like a light bulb in an indescribably moment, becoming like marbles; beautiful, intricate patterns in the blue and white colours of her irises, but cold and transparent and empty, in one single moment that seems almost eternal, and so. . .

Mika Samuels is dead.

It is silent, and I stare at her, fully conscious of the part of me tears off and leaves along with her, and her hand falls from my collar, and I stare at her, hovering my hands over either side of her face now, fearing that I will hurt her if I touch her. As if I can just wait for the light to come back into her eyes again. But it won't be her light that returns, just an empty shell, a shadow of what once was.

"Mika..." I take her hand, shake it, agony and sorrow swallowing me whole. "M-Mika?"

"She'll be okay, Oliver."

I don't react to Lizzie's voice, I just stare in shock and catatonic hysteria, feeling the hairs stand on end over my whole shaking body. Already, Mika's temperature is plummeting.

"She'll be alright now."

I close Mika's eyes with shaking hands, making her look like she is only sleeping.

"She will. She'll be okay. She will."

"Lizzie," I beg, wanting her to stop. "Please..."

"Don't be sad, Oliver. Please don't be sad," she pleads. "It's better now. I wanted her to be alright, an' she will be soon, when she wakes up again..."

_**Oliver... I know you don't think you can move, but... where is Lizzie? **__**What is she doing?**_

"I... I wanted you to be alright, too, Oliver..."

_**Oliver... please, where is she?**_

My breath hitches.

_**Oliver... turn around! Now...**_

Suddenly, all I want to do is to be able to see Lizzie, and I look around at her, and she is stood behind me, her knife still clasped in her hand.

"Lizzie?" I whimper. I stare at Mika's blood is it drips from the end of the blade, and Lizzie purses her lips, afraid too, but the type of afraid you feel when you have to put down a walker; afraid that you might not be able to but you know you have to anyway. It makes my skin crawl. "Lizzie, don't."

I hold my arm out to her, at first to stop her, but I open my palm, wanting her to take my hand, to settle, to come back, but she doesn't, and her eyes glaze over, zoning out, losing herself in her thoughts. I just clutch Mika to me, overpowered by the corrupted innocence that I am witnessing.

"Lizzie. Please?" I beg, refusing to take my gun, refusing to fight her, unable to bring myself to, unable to believe what just happened, or what is about to happen. "Please."

"We all change," she murmurs. "We all... We all change."

Then Lizzie turns around, and it's only then that I hear Carol and Tyreese returning from their hunt empty handed, too. I stare in a haze as they approach, talking merrily to each other and oblivious to the horror that has taken place here.

I almost call out to them, but I suddenly can't bring myself to, knowing that this is worse than anything that they probably will have ever experienced before. I somehow begin to believe that the closer they get to me and the girls without realising, the less real this nightmare will become. So I stay silent, terrified and devastated as I wait for them to fix everything. But none of that happens. Because when Carol and Tyreese finally see Judith sat alone on her blanket, Lizzie staring at them with the bloodied knife held loosely in her red stained hands, and then me, knelt on the ground with a too still Mika clutched to me, both of us drenched in crimson. . .

Absolutely nothing changes. . .

Just that two more people are witnessing this now instead of just me, Lizzie and Judith, and it almost shatters me to pieces.

They break into a run, as if that will help Mika now. I want to rip the knife from Lizzie's hand. I want to pull Mika back into her beating and alive body. I want to melt into the earth and hide there. But I don't do anything. I can't do anything. I just shake and choke in my own hysteria, staring hopelessly as Carol and Tyreese stare at us all, unable to bring myself to leave Mika's side as I hug her cold, limp, blood soaked hand to my chest.

"Don't worry," Lizzie reassures them. "She'll come back... I didn't hurt 'er brain."

Silence hangs in the woods for a long time; not even the natural noise of insects and birds and trees and grass seems to be able to break it.

Carol steps towards Lizzie, aiming to take her knife. But quicker than I am sure of what my blurry eyes have seen, Lizzie drops the knife and aims her gun at them.

"Nonono! We have to wait!" Lizzie cries. "I need to show you! You'll see! You'll finally get it!" She draws in a sharp breath, desperate for us all to hear her out. "We have to wait."

"Lizzie," Tyreese fights the emotion in his voice. "Put the gun down."

"I jus' want us to wait!"

"We can wait," Carol says, and her voice shakes. "We can wait. You jus' gimme the gun... We can wait, I swear."

Lizzie stares at Carol for a long time. Her frail and skinny body shaking violently, the gun, too. She turns to me, searching for my comfort, or input, or maybe just another target to aim at, and I bury my terror and pull my lips apart into what I hope will resemble a smile, knowing that the next few moments would most likely mean life or death for us if Lizzie loses her nerve.

Somehow convinced and comforted, Lizzie turns back to Carol and hands her gun over.

"You, Oliver, and Tyreese should take Judith, back," Carol suggests, her voice closing on itself. "It's not safe for her."

"But, Judith can change, too," Lizzie states, looking over her shoulder to the baby as Judith watches everything happen with curious, naive, oblivious eyes. "I was jus' about t-"

I almost lunge for the infant to protect her from Lizzie, but Carol speaks, stopping me in my tracks. "She can't even walk yet."

"Yeah," Lizzie shrugs. "You're right."

"So you three take Judith back to the house and we'll have _lunch,_" Carol says, smiling with her mouth but not her eyes. "An' I'll jus' tie Mika up. You know, jus' so... she won't go anywhere."

I stifle my wince, exchanging an accidental mortified glance with Tyreese.

"Promise that's what you'll do?" Lizzie asks, seeing Tyreese's wide expression. He forces himself to relax, nodding rigidly.

"Mhm. Promise," Carol lies. "I'll use her shoe laces."

An agonising moment passes. The cold spreads from Mika's tiny form, too cold, and it seeps through her clothing and leaks to my skin. It's starting. The Turn. It's starting already. I look up at Carol desperately. But I don't need to say anything, because Carol gives me a fraction of a nod in an attempt to reassure me, but she looks back at Lizzie, forcing a smile.

Lizzie allows Tyreese to lift Judith from the floor, and he holds his arm out to me. I'm almost not able to move. But he shakes his hand a little, snapping the rationality back into me, and I gently lift Mika's upper body off of me, using my free hand to cradle her head, setting her delicate form onto the grass. I keep hold of her hand until I have no choice but to let go, and I bring myself to my feet.

"Let's, uh," Tyreese begins, bottling his tears. "Let's go, Lizzie."

I can feel Mika's blood drying over my face and hands, sticking to my fingers when I move them, the drying wet cold against the Winter air, freezing me to the core. It's splattered on my lips as well, and I try not to move them so that I don't taste her blood. But my stomach drops, yanking on my trachea.

_Oh no_.

I break away from Tyreese and Lizzie, casually motioning them to keep walking as I stand rigid in the middle of the Grove, forcing the gags and heaves away. Tyreese stares at me, devastated. "Oliver?" he mutters, exhausted and worried and desperate to get Lizzie back into the house.

"Hm?" I try to be nonchalant. "G-go ahead. I'll... I'll be in in a minute," I say, feeling bile rising in my throat.

Tyreese nods, adjusting Judith on his chest and pulling Lizzie to go with him. I force myself to stay together as I walk around the garden and go to the edge of the Grove, and I grab at the barbed wire, wanting something to hold on to, and the spikes cut into my palms. So I drop to my hands and knees and throw up into the soil, afraid I will never stop, until finally, I collapse from horror and exhaustion.

The pecans and twigs dig into my body and face, panting horrifically into the dead leaves and ticking insects that crawl past me, seeing some of them feeding on the small puddle of my vomit that pools a few feet away from me.

Too exhausted to remove, I just bury my face into the ground, curled into a ball, wheezing in the dirt and grass. I only bring my gaze away from the soil when I hear faint rustling, thinking it's a walker, and a wave of further horror attempts to drown me as I search for it.

But my eyes meet the big, shiny, black orbs of a buck. It stands a few yards away from me. It's great antlers towering more than four feet above it's head, with it's wise and peaceful eyes watching me, comforting me; the strange creature that lays on the pecan scattered ground, broken and alone.

I stare at it, my body tensing and jerking when I breath, still trying to empty myself of The Nothingness that has taken me over completely, filling my mind and pulling me out of reality.

Of all things, it is Carl I think of. I imagine him stepping through the tree line a few yards ahead, out from behind the deer. Maybe even out from the deer itself. He would gather me in his arms, hold and whisper gentle comforts into my ear, gather up all of my broken pieces from the floor and fix me again. I imagine him telling me that everything will be okay soon and to go to sleep and wait for this all to be over.

I'm almost unconscious when I feel something touch my shoulder. But I am too exhausted to react. I just brace for the growl, the grab, the teeth...

"Oliver?"

The voice is distant and muffled, burrowing into my mind as I try to block it out. But I draw in a deep breath, opening my eyes and seeing that the deer has disappeared, and I'm searching for him. "Carl?" I croak through my burnt throat, thinking that somehow he has stepped out of my imagination.

"It's me, sweetie."

Carol's voice, not Carl's, and it breaks my heart even more. I close my eyes, feeling like I'm sinking, losing myself into hopelessness and falling through the soil until I'm sure that I'm buried six feet underneath it.

"Oliver?" Carol coos, her voice shaking, and she gently pulls me to sit up. "C'mon. It's n-not safe out here."

I do as she says and pull myself to sit up, wiping my mouth on my sleeve, hiccuping as another cry pushes itself out of me. "Did you do it...? Did you put her down?" I mutter.

I see her nod out of the corner of my eye, and I scrunch my face, tears streaming down my cheeks, stabbed in the gut, just like Mika. I look Carol in the eyes, no longer strengthened by the familiar grey in them. Carol is empty, too. Drained of her courage and composure after what she has just had to do, and then I lean into her, wrapping my arms around her middle. She hesitates, like she's afraid I'll run away, but after a few seconds I still don't recoil, so she envelopes me, gently rocking me in her arms like a baby. But I don't want her to stop. I don't have the energy or will power to pretend I am not breaking anymore.

So I cry. And Carol cries. And together, we cry over Mika, over Lizzie, our family, the Prison... the whole world for what it has turned into. For a long time, the tears and sobs and holds don't stop or weaver, and even when they do, and we are done and drained and emptied, it is not over.

It'll never be over.

* * *

**Notes**

Definitely not,

Happy reading xx :(


	28. The Grove, Part 9: Hidden in Plain Sight

Re-edited: 02/09/2015

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mks** 12 98 **I wish I'd saved Mika. I really do. Every time I re-edit the last chapter I'm like, _"Gah! I could've saved her!"_ But ugh, I guess I'm too lazy.

**Guest **Thank you. But I assure you it is far from the best story on this site! Haha thank you so much! Yeah, the deer becomes a very important symbol for the boys in later chapters. This one especially... hehee And no, Dan did not manage to rape Oliver. He got close. But he Rick saved him by killing Lou.

**ApocalypticFanfiction **Wow! I converted you into a Carl lover! Wow! Well, fuck, my job here is done. Jesus. Might as well pack up my things and be on my way. Hahaha, only kidding. THANK YOU! SO MUCH! Hahaa, means so much you like my story.

**PrettyPrincess45 **Haha, thank you! Oliver appreciates it!

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HAPPY CHRISTMAS!

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**"Serpents" by Sharon Van Etten**

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**Oliver's POV**

Aching. That's what I am. Aching everywhere. It's like pouring with a deep gut wrenching pang that's been emptied of hope and refilled of it over and over again, too many times, like an elastic band ready to snap, stretching me until I'm no longer able to bounce back.

"Look up." I do, and Carol wipes Mika's blood from my chin and neck. "Hands, please?" and so I remove them from the sink, red-tinted water dripping from my fingers as I hold my hands out to her, and she dabs clean water on the slices from the barbed wire. I wince. "Sorry," she whispers, and when I don't reply she watches me. "I'm sorry."

_Why is she sorry? _I think, staring at her, _this is me... This is all on me... _My lips press and tremble, then my chin, and I have to wipe my eyes again, the skin around them red and sore and blistered. Tyreese comes into the bathroom, looking tired and drained. He'd been in the bedroom with Lizzie. "I gotta talk to you both."

"Oliver..." Carol doesn't shift focus from me, and she reaches out, but I flinch, "please talk to me."

"I wanna be with her."

Her brow arches. "Ol-"

"I _want _to stay with Lizzie."

She's shaking her head, "You can't... You can't help her."

"I won't," I whisper tightly. "I just... I want to stay with her." They don't say anything, just stare worriedly, so I keep talking. "Ty? You took away her weapons, right?"

Tyreese nods rigidly, so, without another word, leave the bathroom. Lizzie is sat cross legged on the bed with the shoe box full of mice rested on her lap. Her sister's blood has been cleaned off of her hands and cheek, but I can see the crimson stains on the edges of her sweater sleeves.

"Tyreese found it," Lizzie mumbles at the shoebox. "Think Mika found it."

"Are-" my voice cracks, so I clear my throat. "Are you mad at her?"

Lizzie looks up at me. "No."

She pats the bed beside her, and sit next to her. "It wasn't Mika. I found it."

Lizzie chews her lip and glances at me, "It's okay," she mumbles. "Will... will we give 'em to Mika? When she wakes up?"

"No," I almost bark, but I relax my face and smile, "uh, n-no, um, I... I don't think she'll like them."

"But you gotta. She'll starve!"

"I-I know," I say, resisting the urge to leap away, "and, we will. We'll give them to Mika... th-the other walker, too." Lizzie's eyes shift between mine, testing my honesty. I smile again. It's so forced that it hurts. "I can help you find more if you want," I lie. "We can take Mika with us?"

"Okay," Lizzie says, sitting back on her palms. "She'll like that."

"Yeah," I say, my skin crawling, the corners of my mouth shaking in my effort to keep smiling, "n-no problem, Lizzie."

I overhear Carol and Tyreese talking, catching sentences like, "We can't sleep with her an' Judith under the same roof," and "she can't be around other people," and even "this is how she is... it was already there." and the worst part is, I agree with them, and it breaks my heart. Lizzie didn't just become messed up over night... this has been going on for a long time.

"Lizzie?" I break the whispers. She glances from the window to me, to my relief, she doesn't seem to have heard the others. "How long, have, uh, have you been... feeding walkers?" I struggle to ask, such a thing fighting to sound at least a little bit sane in my mind, but even as I say it, I can't make sense of any part of it.

"I don't know," she answers. "I jus'... started feeding them – helping them."

"Why?"

"I never had a friend other than Mika," is her answer. "I know how they feel. I can understand them... When everything happened – An' it was jus' me, Dad an' Mika for a while. An' then The Prison... An' I got new friends; You. Molly, Luke, Carol, Maggie, Tyreese, Daryl, Beth, Carl, Judith, Patrick."

I purse my lips and nod, taking in how little of us are left now out of that long list of people I still think of as my family. Always will think of as family. "Yeah," my voice cracks and my smile fades, and I am rendered unable to bring it back any longer.

Lizzie watches me. "He told me to keep her safe."

"Wh-who?" I ask, pulling at my beanie.

"Carl."

My expression hardens, too close to tears. At my silence, Lizzie takes it as her permission to continue.

"The day of The Attack. While you an' Hershel an' Michonne were with The Governor," she says, "we were in the office blocks when the first explosion hit. Carl was with Beth and Maggie... an'... he told me to take Judith. He told me to keep 'er safe... So I did." Lizzie stares at me as she lets her last few words swim in the air and stick to my skin like leeches. "Mika was crying... Molly and Luke ran away. So, I hid Judith. But I kept her and Mika safe. Killed two people to save 'em - saved Tyreese... I kept them all safe. I'm keeping Mika safe."

My body jolts. "Mika's dead now."

"No, she's jus' changing," Lizzie argues, sighing like she is exhausted of having to repeat herself. "Everyone changes. We all _change,_ we do." I don't say anything, and Lizzie stares. "I don't want you to be mad at me... Oliver, please don't be mad at me?"

Without hesitating, I wrap my arms around her. She sobs silently into my neck, enveloping her skinny arms around me, squeezing tight. "I could never be mad at you, Lizzie." My eyes are scrunched, and I'm crying. "I love you. I love you so much."

"L-love you, too, Oliver."

I wipe my face, making sure that the gut wrenching guilt and sorrow is completely gone from my expression before pulling away and smiling at her, and I pick up the box of mice, placing it on the edge of the bed. "We'll give them to her later."

"Do you think she's awake yet?" Lizzie asks, wiping her eyes and chewing her lip.

I dip my head. "Nah. It's colder lately." I look back up. Smile. "The process'll take a little longer."

"Okay." She scoots forward and leans on me, wrapping her arms around my middle and resting her head on my shoulder, and I close my eyes and rest my chin on the top of her head, closing my eyes.

We stay like this for a long time. Lizzie falls asleep on me after a while, and I lose myself in thinking about what will happen to her now. But I don't make a list of options in my head, because as soon as one begins to form it's too terrible to finish. So I blank my mind, trailing it back to when I was Lizzie's age instead. Before the outbreak, and for a moment, I'm twelve years old and oblivious to what the world will turn into in just a few short years. Everything is simple and bright and pure. No death. No sadness. No violence. No hate. No murder. No loss. No guilt... Just the world in all it's glory, waiting for me to discover it.

Someone knocks on the door.

"Hey."

Unlike Lizzie, I don't look around as Carol enters the room, a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that I try to push away.

"Is she awake yet?" Lizzie asks hopefully.

"Not yet." Carol clears her throat. "But I was thinkin' you an' me could go an' talk. We can pick some flowers for her." Lizzie nods. "But not yet," Carol adds. "I gotta talk to Oliver a minute."

I almost wince at her, hurting as the guilt burrows deeper into my chest. But I climb off the bed and follow Carol out of the room and into the kitchen.

"We..." Carol begins, but her voice fails on her. So she tries again, "We've decided what... has to – _needs._.. to be done."

I stay silent, offering something that was suppose to be a nod but became a shrug.

"Do you understand?" Carol asks, because no matter how mature this world has made me, in such a devastating circumstance, I am still only a child.

I mumble my _Yes, ma'am,_ trying not to think about anything.

"You know what has to be done?"

"Do you..." I cringe before I finish, shaking me expression clear. "Do you need me... to...?"

"No," Carol interrupts. "No. No, Oliver."

"Wh-when?"

Carol stutters before she looks away, unable to speak. So Tyreese speaks for her. "Now, Oliver."

"Wait." Something cracks in me and I stand up, grabbing the woman's hand. "Carol, p-please?" I beg, suddenly realising how unbearable everything that we have been talking about will really be. "Please?" My head tilts, my feet shift, voice hitching and tears running. "Carol, please?"

"Oliver," her voice catches, devastated but stern. "Stop."

I stare hard and relentlessly, wincing as I try not to scream at her. But I hear Judith begin to cry and it snaps the sense back into me, and I recoil back into the couch.

Carol doesn't look at me as she takes her hand back, rubbing it with her other as if my grasp had frozen or scolded her. She goes into the bedroom and a moment later comes back out with Lizzie holding her hand.

"Can Oliver come, too?"

"No, Lizzie," Carol answers. "Jus' you an' me."

Lizzie glances at me, but I look away; unable to bear it, and I almost double over in agony. "It's okay, Lizzie. Go," I mutter with my eyes closed. But I know that she is not stupid, so I force my eyes to open and look, taking her hand and almost having to shove my lips into a smile. "I'll see you when you both get back."

Lizzie nods, "An' we can talk to Mika again? I can show you how?"

I nod, gently stroking the back of her hand and swallowing the heavy rock in my throat. "Sure, Lizzie."

"C'mon, sweetie," Carol says, holding her hand out.

The child's frail hand leaves mine, for the last time, and I watch, pretending that everything inside of me isn't caving in on itself, as she skips away and takes Carol's hand, and they leave the house.

Everything goes quiet. Tyreese, Judith and I, we almost seem to drown in it, and it's so intense that I'm almost sure I can hear the almost mocking sound of the mice rustling and squeaking from inside of the shoe box in the bedroom. I stare blankly at the blood stain on my jeans, and soaks into the brown couch throw, and I touch it, my brow arching in both sadness and disgust, and I try not to think of what I could have done differently. I try not to blame myself for Mika's death. But it is always when you try not to think about something that you do. But then I hear Judith fussing again and I step off the couch and walk over to her and Tyreese.

He looks up to me, cooing to her, and we don't say anything. Tyreese just hands her over to me and she settles almost immediately, relaxing and letting her delicate form melt into my torso, and Tyreese goes over to the window. I don't follow him, knowing that he's watching them, knowing that Carol has been left with no other choice other than to end Lizzie's life to spare all of ours.

_**It's your fault... It's your fault. **_I shake my head, bobbing Judith in my arms and refusing to take my eyes off of her, in fear that when I do the remorse will creep into every part of me. But it's too powerful, and it fights its way into my mind. _**IT'S YOUR FAULT! ALL OF IT! ALL YOU, OLIVER! YOU FAILED TO PROTECT THEM AND NOW MIKA IS DEAD! NOW LIZZIE WILL DIE, TOO! IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT! **_I have to sit down before I collapse. Only, I don't make it back to the couch. I clatter to the floor against the wall at the edge of the hallway closest to the living room, using all my effort to break Judith's fall, and the crash hurts, but Judith is unscathed.

The silence hangs in the air like poison, making me want to refuse to breath it. I close my eyes, wincing as I anticipate the bullet that will end Lizzie's life, every moment becoming heavier and heavier... until finally. . .

_**CLAP!**_

I bury my face into Judith, crying silently, but too hysterical to stop myself. I can feel it eating away at me; the unbearable guilt. Just like Carol told me it would. Only it's worse now. It rips into me like the shot that still rings in my ears.

When I pull away Judith stares up at me, confused, but staying quiet. Beth used to say that Judith could sense people's moods. I never used to believe her, thinking that she was too young and dumb to have such a gift. But now I know. She can see things better than anyone can. Her innocent and uncorrupted mind doesn't miss anything. She doesn't understand it all yet, but she still sees more than I ever could.

Judith sees what is hidden in plain sight.

Unlike me. Just like the ukulele in the suburb house and Venus the pin prick planet... and now Lizzie... I should have noticed. God, I should have picked up on it a long time ago. I should have done something about it. Told Carol. Tried to talk to Lizzie about it more. Protected Mika. Protected Judith from seeing it all happen. But I didn't. I just pushed it to the back of my head and buried myself in my own self pity. _**But what if... like Mika said, "Everything works out the way it's suppose to"? What if it was better this way?**_ _No! How could you think like that?__** Mika and Lizzie are at peace now... away from all this. Spared from everything awful that this world has become. You've seen it. You've seen how terrible this world is. And you still want Judith to live in it? You still want her to live like this? Oliver? How could YOU think that? Isn't it selfish to want her to stay alive just so you can keep a promise to a boy who died a long time ago? **__No! No it isn't! It's survival! I know it may not make sense yet; why we still keep fighting. And I know that it is probably just human instinct for us to want to stay alive despite how awful this place has become now. But we need it, don't we? We can't just... give up! Not after everything we have all been through! Not yet!_

Tyreese comes over to me as I crumple further into the floor, fits of hysterical wheezes and wails forcing their way out of my lungs, unable to speak, or even think properly. He's crying, too. "G-give her t-to me," he suggests, and I try to refuse, but he lifts the baby from my quivering arms and helps me to stand, and then I am hugging him, frantically and desperately, and he is hugging me, too, trembling.

It gets too much, and I wrench myself away and stumble into my bedroom, not wanting anyone to see me like this as I slam the door closed behind me, and I rip off my beanie hat, violently throttling the fabric in my hands, wanting it to be myself, wanting to rip away at all the bad that is growing in me and turning me into a monster.

Soon I'm curled up on the cold wood floor of my bedroom, wincing when the splinters dig into my skin, rocking back and forth and glad as it makes my body ache even more than before. I deserve the punishment. I curl tighter, suffocating in the guilt, until it consumes me, and I fall unconscious.

* * *

_I'm in a forest, and I'm walking through it, moss and dirt under my bare feel, stepping over fallen logs and running my palm along tree trunks and bracken bushes, and dew coats my skin. It has a song; the forest. It's soft and natural and slow and alive, and I listen to it, enjoying it._

_Something is following me. But I'm not afraid. I'd seen it before. The buck._

_"Come on. Here... that's it," I encourage the noble creature, holding my hand out._

_It snorts through its nose as if to mock me for my childish tones at it, then throws its head backwards in playful contempt, and his great antlers crash into the branches above. A downpour of cool dew falls over us both, suddenly, falling from the leaves and foliage. I shield myself, lifting my arms and chuckling nervously._

_"Hey!"_

_He exhales. My heart suddenly quickens its beat, and I realise now that the strange and magnificent creature is, in fact, Carl. He watches me, his wise, fiery, black orbs glistening proudly in the sun, and I relax my shoulders._

_"Come on."_

_He cooperates, and we both walk further into the forest, the sound of his soft hooves patting the soil behind me playing naturally into the song of the trees and air rustling around us._

_"It isn't too far ahead," I tell him, and he makes a low blowing noise to tell me that he understands, even though I am not entirely sure what this _'it'_ actually is. Until finally, I step out into a clearing, a crystal clear lake with a small island situated in the middle of it. Reeds and lilly pads scatter across the water and the sunlight sparkles across the surface, just like a place I read about in a book, and I know that this is the _'it'_ we've been looking for._

_I'm about to pull off my shoes, but I realise I don't have them. In fact, I'm not wearing anything. But my naked state doesn't seem to shock me, nor embarrass me at all despite the knowledge that I am not alone here._

_His antlers stop out the corner of my eye, standing beside one another and look over the water, and then, I step into the lake and wade across the water. I expect it to be cold, but it's warm, like a tepid bath. So I keep going until my feet don't touch the floor anymore, and I chuckle at the frogs and small fish that scramble out of my way, and then finally climb out onto the island and sit down with my legs folded underneath me on a soft bed of grass and pebbles._

_He sniffs the calm water, his strong breath rippling and breaking the surface._

_"Come on!" I encourage, beckoning him over as his long, bay coloured face pops up from the water to look at me. He calls out, the low, earth rumbling groan coming from the deepest parts of his great lungs. I grin. "What're you afraid of? Worried your pretty coat'll get wet?"_

_I swear I see his eyes narrow, but he relents, dipping his cloved, right, front hoof into the water, grounding it on the stones. Then he walks in, eventually going far enough to submerge his whole body under the clear water, letting out a soft bleat of contempt as he does. I watch in awe, leaning forward onto my palms to get a better look of the tiny air bubbles breaking away from his smooth, mahogany fur, rising to the surface. I make out the movement of his long, dark legs as they kick out behind him, helping him swim towards me, until finally he climbs up the shallow bank and stands in front of me, snorting slightly from his efforts and visibly a little uncomfortable from the water clinging and dripping from his soggy fur._

_Then he shakes. Like a damn dog!_

_His whole anatomy rocks from side to side, water spraying all over me, and I grimace, arms up. "Hey!" I laugh, turning my face away when the warm water splashes in my eyes. "Stop, man!"_

_He seems to rumble in amusement, stepping over to me and lying right beside me, close enough for me to feel the warmth radiating from his giant body. He looks out over the lake, breathing slowly and letting the sun begin to dry him, and I stare at him, his four legs folded under his muscular and sturdy body, the strands of wet delicate fur that sticks out in awkward angles from his shake._

_"Carl?" I say quietly, resisting the urge to reach out and run my hand along his coat. He glances at me, water dripping from his antlers, his long, buck eyelashes fluttering when he blinks, and he exhales slowly, reaching his long neck over to sniff my face. I close my eyes as he blows out, sending my hair puffing in all directions like a hair dryer. I smile. "Thanks, Man."_

_Keeping my eyes closed, I hear his front leg pat the ground to readjust himself a little closer to me, and then I feel warm, soft fur; strong skull beneath it, as he carefully presses against my forehead. I inhale sharply in fear that such a colossal animal could easily crush me if it wanted to. But I know that he won't hurt me. So, I lift my hands. My right takes purchase on the base of his left antler, gently closing my fist over the bony velvet, and my left strokes up his jaw, feeling the soft fur under my palm. My breath hitches. . ._

_"I miss you."_

_He presses his forehead against mine a little more, and tears rolls down my cheeks. He exhales, warm, steady breath gusting over my bare skin. But then something happens. I become aware of a low buzzing sound, like a million bees swarming all around us. But I'm not afraid, and neither of us move._

_The noise grows louder, and the light brightens through my closed eyelids. So I open them, only to see the whole world turning blinding white. I wince, keeping hold of him, clinging to his antler and mandible, trusting nothing will hurt us. Then, to my awe and wonderment, I feel skin. Fur retracts and becomes smooth and delicate and familiar, and my hold on the antler shifts and changes to hair... human hair._

_I open my eyes, trying to focus on what has happened, to watch his metamorphosis take place, but everything is too bright. So I scrunch my eyes shut and hold him, waiting for the deafening buzz and blinding light to fade, and finally, it does. My heart pounds and throbs at the same time, and I slowly coax my eyes to open._

_Blue.  
__That's all I see.  
__Electrifying, flawless, deep blue, and it blinds me almost as much as the whiteness from a moment ago did. But I know this blue... I love this blue._

_"Carl."_

_He smiles, "Hey, man."_

_I cup the back of his head and jaw, running my thumb over his skin with my other hand, smiling as he keeps our foreheads pressed together. Tears fall down my cheeks and I close my eyes, hiccuping, joy and sadness overcoming me. He wipes the tears away, gently snaking his hands around my nape and arching his neck to kiss me._

_"I miss you," I mutter again, moving my lips against his perfect skin, too awed to kiss him back, and I fold into him, hugging him, and it doesn't seem to matter to either of us that we both have no clothes on us. This isn't a sexual embrace, nor does it have anything sexual intended in it. We are simply here for each other, holding one and other closely and securely in an intimate entwinement._

_"I'm here, Oliver," Carl coos into my ear. "I'm here."_

_I hold him tighter, pawing his bare shoulder blades and burying my nose into the crook of his neck. I breath in his scent. I absorb his form, melting into him, missing him so much it hurts. But it's me who pulls away. Carl purses his lips, taking both of my hands and stroking his middle fingers along the small of my palms to comfort me._

"_They're dead." My brow arches, voice rising. "They're dead."_

_"I know," he whispers, kissing my fringe._

_"It's my fault."_

_The weight of his hand increases on my neck, squeezing gently. But he doesn't say anything. So I hold him tighter, desperately wanting never to let go._

_"I don't wanna go back any more," I say, closing my eyes and fighting my tears, and I attach my face to his neck, shaking my head desperately. "Please?" I beg, hiccuping and scrunching my eyes shut. "I can't go back. I-I can't do it anymore. P-please?"_

_"My sister," Carl says, "she needs you, Oliver. An' you need her, too."_

_Then he gets up. "Where are you going?" I ask, and he pulls me to accompany him. I wipe a few tears away, and I watch a smile spread across his lips and his brow rise. "What are we doing?"_

_"Swimming," he answers, pulling._

_I stumble after him, and he crashes into the lake, diving under the water and out of my sight. I hesitate for a moment, searching for his pale form to submerge from the water again, but he takes longer than I thought._

_"Carl?" I wade into the water, trying to wait for it to settle so I can see better, and my worry increases. "Carl!" I shout, cupping my hands to my mouth and kicking below me to keep my head above the water. No answer, and he still doesn't come back up. "Dammit!" I hiss, swivelling around. "Carl?!"_

_I ready myself to dive under to find him, terrified that he is sinking to the bottom of the lake, and I suck in a loud deep breath,but. . ._

_"Gyahhh!"_

_Something yanks on my feet and pulls me under the water. Terrified, I'm dragged down, waiting for the teeth to tare through my skin, and I try to wrestle against it, clawing for the surface, hearing my own muffled cries under the water and watching the blurry air bubbles leave and make their own selfish escape._

_But no pain ensues, and then, I realise that the grabbing isn't grabbing at all._

_Two hands, warm and living and gentle, moving up my body and exploring every centimetre of me. So I stop fighting, trying not to sink further down into the lake. The hands glide up my legs, over my abdomen, travelling up my rib cage, my arms, my spine, my shoulders, my collar bones, my neck... until they reach my face, cupping my jaw and holding me where I am; suspended fifty yards under in the lake._

_Thumbs gently press under my eyes, and I finally coax them open under the water, overwhelmed with relief as I see the blurry outline of dark, brown hair waving every direction in front of me, the bright smile on his fair face, the stunning blue of his orbs that are still vibrant even through the blur._

_He pulls himself closer, tangling our legs and melting our bodies, and we kiss, locking our lips in an under water embrace, our bare forms so close that we could be a whole person if we wanted to. Suddenly, I don't even want the air anymore as it patiently sits above us, and as Carl stays down here with me I know that he is experiencing the same liberating freedom, both of us only needing each other to keep from drowning._

_I can't tell if we are rising to the surface or sinking further down, but it doesn't matter, I just keep kissing him, basking in his touch. I don't know when we break apart, I just become aware that Carl is cupping my cheek with his free hand, motions his chin upwards to the surface, wanting me to follow._

_We swim back to the surface, holding hands as we break the water line, gasping and coughing. Carl and I laugh, half choking at the same time. He shakes his head to get his long, soggy hair out of his eyes, and I pull him closer to me and use my free hand to neaten his mop, smiling as I run the dark hair through my fingers and plant a kiss on his lips, and when I pull away he chuckles, keeping us above the surface because it seems I've given up swimming all together._

_"I have to go now, don't I?" I whisper._

_"Yeah," he says. "I do, too."_

_"Where?" I ask._

_Carl shrugs, a smirk spreading over his lips. "You know... Stuff... Things," he says, mimicking his father's Southern drawl._

"_Fine," I laugh at him. "Try to refrain from tickling walkers though, alright?"_

_"Yeah, yeah."_

_We kiss one last time, wallowing in each other's lips. He breaks away, gently pushing me towards the bank leading back into the forest, and I float for a moment, holding his gaze, before swimming to the bank opposite him. But he hasn't followed me. "Aren't you coming, too?" I call across the lake._

_"Not yet," Carl says._

_For a moment, I think that he is about to wave at me, but both his arms raise up to the sky, as if he's soaking in the sun rays or worshipping a God he's found to believe in maybe. But then I realise what is happening when the blinding light returns to the forest, along with the deafening buzzing noise. So intense that I have to scrunch my eyes shut and clasp my hands to my ears to muffle it all._

_When it all fades again, I look back to where I saw Carl, amazed when I see the buck; his beautiful antlers protruding from the water as he snorts and calls to me. I smile at him, watching as he twirls around in a small circle in the lake, and I know he is proud that he looks so much like the buck he saw when he got shot all that time ago._

_"Bye, Carl!"_

_He groans back to me, and I grin. . ._

* * *

"I love you."

I say it too late, because I'm awake now, and at first I'm buzzing from my dream, but then I hear digging, and my happiness fades, diminishing rapidly with every jab that impales the soil from outside, pushing me out of unconsciousness and throwing the events of the morning back into my memory. Someone's put a blanket over me, so I pull it off, taking a deep breath, scratching the lines across my face from the dents that the wooden panel floor has marked me with.

I clutch the side of the bed and stand up, feeling so weak that I am amazed when I don't pass out again. The digging doesn't stop, and so I go out onto the decking, and I lean over the banister, picking at the white paint as it peels off and crumbles in my palms, until I have a small mound of the craggy paint cupped in my hands. So I drop them, watching as the white flakes fall to the dead flower bed below where the scuff marks are from the walker that fell here three days ago.

Carol is digging. Mika's body is wrapped in a white bed sheet next to her, and I tense as I see the large red circle on her stomach, the second smaller circle of crimson on her forehead. Carol doesn't notice me, too focused on digging the girl's graves and burying her own sorrow and devastation, so I knock on the banister.

Carol startles and stops digging. But she recognises me and sighs, doing something that would be a smile in any other circumstance.

"Where's another shovel?" I ask.

Carol opens her mouth to protest, to tell me I'm not strong enough. But I'm done sitting things out now, and my hard stare tells her that without needing any more words from either of us. So, silently relenting, she motions to the garden bench. I go and grab the shovel propped against the outdoor furniture, before helping Carol dig, continuing with one grave as she does the other.

I had to go and throw up again when Tyreese came back with Lizzie. Her blood ran down his arm, which I could handle. Too much was when her head rolled to one side from under the blanket and I saw her eyeball hanging out of her skull. But he and Carol humanely didn't say anything or tell me to go inside, and so we finished the graves and the burials.

The funeral is quiet and heart wrenching. We lay wild flowers down on their graves, placing the array of bright yellow and pinks in a small neat bundle down on the mounded earth. None of us say anything. No words of condolence of farewell, no repeating prayers or participation in traditional rituals. We just look at the graves and the flowers until we each decide to leave. Tyreese goes in first, then Carol after a while longer.

I remain sat cross legged between the two small graves, placing a palm on each loose mound of dirt and dipping my head. _I'm sorry, _I think to them. _I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. And I'm so sorry that it had to turn out this way. _I start crying again, digging my thumbs into my eyes to stop. _Enjoy the stars,_ I think to Mika. _Shine bright and beautiful and, absolutely love being free, like you wanted. Keep an eye out on us, would you? I'm not sure how much I deserve it, but I know that at least Judy does._ I wipe my tears and turn my head to look at Lizzie's grave, stroking my thumb over the unsettled soil. _Keep your sister safe. Because you can now. You can keep each other safe._

I stay for so long that the tears dry on my cheeks, and I still try to wipe them away, smearing dirt over my skin. I remember when my grandmother died when I was seven. Brain cancer. Whenever we went to take her flowers, my mother would kiss her fingers and press them against the soil of her mother's grave. So I do the same thing, bringing my right hand to my mouth and pressing the ends of my fingers to my lips, then pressing my hand to Mika's grave. I do the same for Lizzie's grave, before bringing my hands to my face and resting my cheek on my knuckle.

"I love you both."

* * *

I set the mice free; watched them scurry away through the garden and back to their real homes. I'd almost forgotten that I left the pecans on the tractor bonnet, and even when I got them back none of us ate them. "Have a few at least," Carol told me.

"Yeah, Oliver," Tyreese said, too. "Try to eat."

"Why?"

"You need your strength," Carol said.

"So do you."

They didn't insist after that.

I'm beginning to think that strength is severely overrated. I've been running on fumes ever since the Prison; Patrick dying, getting captured by The Governor, watching my home get torn apart, murdering a man in cold blood and looting from his corps, getting captured by those Claimers, losing my family again, losing the boy I love, and now this... but, somehow I'm still here. The same goes for Carol and Tyreese. But, I can't decide weather we are the lucky ones or not.

I'm curled up against the hallway wall with Judith sleeping in my arms. It's been quiet, and it's late, but we are all too distraught and tired to sleep. Insomnia, I think is what it's called. Carol and Tyreese are sat at the table with the unfinished jigsaw puzzle still sprawled across the surface in front of them. Carol'd asked Tyreese if she could talk to him almost half an hour ago -by the houses clock on the wall opposite me- but she hasn't spoken yet. They both know I'm here though, so I know that they aren't waiting for me to leave. But the minutes drag on. I obsessively watch the seconds hand tick the time away, wondering weather she's decided not to tell after all. But then, as the time rolls over into sixteen minutes past midnight, I hear something slide across the varnished surface of the table, and finally, Carol speaks.

"I killed Karen and David."

I almost don't process it, too tired and exhausted to restart the clogs in my brain to remember something so far back in my time-line, even though it was less than a fortnight ago. But then it all clicks, and everything that happened before the Prison Attack floods back to my memory like a herd of angry walkers. The sickness, the murders... Carol's disappearance.

I hear Tyreese's breath shake and my whole anatomy turns to stone. Terror swamps me, remembering how enraged Tyreese was to find his girlfriend dead, the brutal fight he had with Rick.

"I had to stop the illness from breaking out. I had to stop other people from dying."

Then, silence... and it screams in my ears.

"It wasn't Lizzie. It wasn't a stranger," Carol says, her voice high and close to crying. "Tyreese it was me."

I listen, paralysed to the floor as Tyreese shifts in his seat, and I brace for him to throw the table across the room and lunge at Carol, and I feel my gun on my hip, terrified that I'll have to point it at him to stop him from killing her.

"Do what you have to do," Carol says. "Just... don't let him see."

My breath hitches and I almost leap from the floor. But to do what? To say what? So I stay where I am, listening intensely as my body and hands begin to shake, knowing that if I'm not careful I will drop Judith, so I concentrate on keeping hold of her.

I hear someone grip the table, the legs scraping and jolting against the floor, making me want to shrink and run away as far as possible.

"Oliver?"

It's Tyreese, and his breath shakes violently, and I don't say anything, my hand clamps over my mouth, so he speaks again.

"Oliver, take Judith in the bedroom."

"N-no."

"Take her."

"No," I whimper. "I don't w-"

"NOW!"

I whimper, helpless, powerless, and then I am on my feet, swivelling around to face them, Judith on my hip and my Glock in my hand, aimed at him. "Don't do this... Please, Ty."

"Go, Oliver," Carol begs me quietly, calmly.

"NO!"

Carol starts crying. Tyreese doesn't do anything. He just stares at her, wide eyed and horrified.

I anticipate his roar, or his scream... or his own gun shot. But none of that happens.

"Did she know what was happenin'?" he asks. "Was she scared?"

Carol nods shakily. I don't loosen my grip. Judith reaches out to the gun, confused and curious, and when she can't reach she turns to me and presses her palm to my cheek, running her finger through the tears that run down it, and she's jolting, reflectively having to grip me with her hands from how badly I am shaking.

"It was quick?" Tyreese adds.

"Yes," Carol struggles to tell him, the word shaking as they escape her.

Tyreese processes what he has just learnt, his breathing shakes and hitches, and I struggle to keep my own breathing silent.

"Do what you have to do," she says again.

I shift on my feet, my breath freezing in my throat, panicking, but my arm drops, and along with it, my Glock as it clatters to the floor. _Ican'tIcan'tIcant!_

"It's okay, Oliver," Carol tells me. "Go."

My heart pounds and the hairs stand on end over my whole body, and I pull Judith's tiny, sleeping form closer to me, desperately trying to protect her from hearing this, as if she will become sick from the guilt pouring through the house, like it's a disease and we are all the carriers.

"I forgive you."

Carol draws in a sharp breath at Tyreese's words, and I have to stop my shoulders from convulsing in overwhelming relief.

"I'm never gonna forget," he continues, his voice low and raspy. "It happened. You did it. You feel it, I know you do. It's a part o' you now... me, too... but... I forgive you."

"Th-thank you," she says, her breath hitching.

"We don't need to stay here," Tyreese tells us, and he looks up to me, and I carefully go and take a seat at the table next to them. Carol meets my gaze, looking like she is just about ready to erupt in her emotional agony, and tears stream down my face. So she holds her arm out to me, and I don't hesitate, panting and hiccuping and wrapping my arms around her and Judith, holding tightly.

"I'm sorry," she whispers into my ear, speaking to all of us.

"We _can't_ stay here."

* * *

We leave first thing.

I have my clothes, still stained with Mika's blood, all borrowed a long time ago from Carl, and my boots and my beanie, my glock in my holster around my waist and Judith on my spine in her travel sack.

Just as we're about to leave, sharing the three supply bags between us, Carol holds out something to me.

It's Lizzie's knife.

"I don't want it."

"You need it."

"I have my machete," I say, frowning and swatting the knife away.

"Take it."

"No!"

She stares hard, and I try to stare back. But I crumble, tears bursting from me, and after a moment I fall into her, crying into her shoulder when she wraps her arms around me. But my arms hang by my side.

"I'm sorry," Carol hiccups.

"Stop."

"I'm..."

"Stop," I say again, because it's me. I am the one to blame for this. All of it. I try to tell her this, but I just cry more, and I feel Carol fit the sheath around my waist for me, but I don't argue anymore, I just watch her place the blade that murdered a little girl around in its new place around my waist, opposite my gun, hoping never to have to touch it.

"C'mon," Carol says, holding the screen door open for me.

Grazelda Gunderson is still lead on the floor in the living room where Mika left it, and I look at Carol and nod. So we leave. The burnt corpses still litter the ground. But we don't look back, leaving the Grove and all it's ghosts behind. Wanting to forget but unable to. But like Carol said, our past is there to make sure we don't. It's there to help us learn to live with what we have to do.

Lizzie said we all change, and it's true. We do. But I can't let myself change for the worst. The monster inside; the same monster that Carl was so afraid of becoming... I can feel it in me, too, and what I have had to go through is making it harder to ignore its taunting growls. It's changing me, making me darker and more willing to do things that will tare away at my humanity. It almost made me kill Tyreese last night. But I know I can stay good. I know I can. I have to do it for Carl. With Carol and Tyreese and Judith to help me. I can stay human. I can stay me.

I can stay Oliver De Luca.

* * *

**Notes**

What did you think of Oliver's dream? I'd say it was one heck of a wet dream... ya know... 'cause they were swimming... XD sorry, but I had to put that pun in there... I know, I should be ashamed XD

**Preview: Catching up with Carl, we see the aftermath of the terrors he, Michonne and Rick have been through. We'll see Oliver's influence, even now after weeks of thinking he's dead, still shaping Carl's actions and behaviour. Terminus is close, and they aren't sure what they'll find.**

As always,

Happy reading xx :_)_


	29. A, Part 1: The Claimers

Re-edited: 02/09/2015

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Fourteen days, I think, since the Prison Attack, since Judith died. Seven days since the outdoors store. Nine days since Oliver died. Terminus is three miles away.

It took an extra few days out of our journey when we reached a tunnel. There was a message on the wall in dried walker blood. But it was so sun washed and craggy that we couldn't make out what it said. Michonne was sure she could read the word _"Glenn"_in it. But I wasn't convince and neither was Dad. It looked more like _"Gone."_ I knew we should have gone straight through the tunnel, but, of course, Dad wouldn't allow it. So we took almost three days longer to go around it because the track turned underground and we almost lost it. But we found our way back, eventually.

I don't know why I'm counting. I don't even know if I am right. I could be out by a day or two somewhere. Maybe I'm out by a week, or maybe even a whole month. It's hard to tell these days. If Oliver was here he'd know. He was always one to rely on for keeping the date. That's how he worked; it was the middle of the apocalypse and Oliver still made the bed. He still spoke in his mother's tongue. He still tracked the date and time... and he still sacrificed his life to keep us safe.

_"I see the kid didn't find ya'll in the end then?"_

They found us last night. The men that were at the suburb. The men that killed Oliver. Yesterday, before, in the morning while Michonne, Dad and I were checking the snares we heard someone screaming... I thought it was him for a moment. I thought it was Oliver, and even as I was running to save him I knew, deep down, it wouldn't be him. Of course, it wasn't. Just some guy. I still tried to help him though, but there were too many and Dad pulled me away. I saw him die; the stranger. I watched from the tree line as he was torn apart and devoured, screaming for the help that we were refusing him.

That's how we found ourselves so exposed. We'd gotten away from the walkers, found an old, useless, blue truck parked and abandoned in the middle of the road. It smells of rot and blood, and I hate to admit it, but I'm used to it.

I was dreaming of him when it all started.

Oliver told me that he was rescuing me, but, I didn't know what he was rescuing me from, and I wanted to ask, but I didn't get the chance.

"Oh deary me! You screwed up ass hole!"

It was them.

"You hear me? You screwed up!"

There was a man outside the passenger seat window. I thought he was Dad at first; still tired and starving and half asleep. But it wasn't my father. It wasn't even a walker.

A stranger. He was large, his frame towering over me like a greedy sky scraper, and he was bearded, with wiry, brown hair, and his laughter was so menacing and low and awful that it seemed to make the truck windows rattle.

"Restitution. Balancing o' the _whole_ damn universe," another man, a southern drawl stated with grey hair and beard.

"Shit!" he said, holding a gun to my father's temple, "an' I was thinkin' o' turnin' in for the night on new years eve!"

The large man at my window was sneering at me, tapping the end of his blade against the window a few times, each clink that emitted from the weapon made me finch no matter how much I tried to hide it, and he muttered at me, "Claimed."

"Now who's gonna count down the ball dropper with me," the southern drawl mocked. "Ten Mississippi. Nine Mississippi. Eight Missis-"

"Joe!"

I saw the black waist coat and trade mark angel wings on the back of them. It was Daryl.

He tried to stop them. He tried to reason.

"This's the guy that killed Lou, so we got nothin' to talk about," another man said. I put the pieces together, remembering Dad tell us of a man that he'd killed in that suburb house to escape.

But Joe gave Daryl a chance to explain, and Daryl tried. It was hard for him, but he tried.

"These people - you're gonna let 'em go. These're good people."

"Now, I-I think Lou would disagree with you on that," Joe said. "I'll o' course have to speak for 'im an' all, 'cause your friend here... strangled 'im in a bathroom. . ." But Joe saw me, and at first he squinted, then smirked. "Christ... for a moment there I thought you were him, back from the dead or somethin'... Oliver, I think he said his name was, that right?"

It tore me apart.

"You see," Joe said to Dad. "I thought it was him that killed ol' Lou... but Tony here. He says he saw _two _guys under the bed. You,_an'_ the boy... Poor kid," he laughed then, a deep, throat rumbling cackle that sent chills of fury down my spine. "After what he went through, we weren't countin' on him escapin'... but I s'pose where there's a will there's a way, ain't there?"

Oliver escaped.

"Determined kid, I'll give 'im that."

I wanted to gut him and feed him his own entrails.

"I was sure he'd o' found ya'll by now. If he lived... I guess not."

"You want blood," Daryl said then, already knowing the answer. "I get it. Take it from me, man.. C'mon."

"This man killed our friend," Joe said. "You say he's good people. S-see that right there, i-i-is a _lie_... It's a LIE!"

And this was where things got bad. Really bad.

"Teach 'im fellas," Joe orders. "TEACH 'IM ALL THE WAY!"

Daryl was beaten. Hard. The man outside my door, he broke in, forced me from the truck, held a knife to my throat and whispered horror into my ear.

"YOU LEAVE HIM BE!"

But Dad couldn't help me. He couldn't help Daryl. Or Michonne.

Dad still tried. "It was me! IT WAS JUS' ME!"

"See now that's right!" Joe shouted. "Not some damn lie! We can settle this, we're reasonable men."

I was crying. I could smell his breath, I could feel his hands, I could see the horror in my father's eyes, and all I could think about was Oliver... if he had to go through this, and what Joe meant by everything he had said. Oliver escaped, but did he live? Did he try to find us? Did we leave him there, missing him by a hair as we began to follow the tracks? Did Oliver die because of my own lack of faith in his survival? Is he even dead?

"First we're gonna beat Daryl to death," Joe told Dad. "Then we'll have the girl... then the boy." _They did this to him. They _'had'_him._ "And then we'll shoot you an' we'll be square."

I was thrown down; hit the road under me, hard, crashing to my hands and knees. I saw the knife, and I tried to take it, but I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't strong enough. He pinned me to the floor and laughed in my face. I threw punches. I clawed at him. But he gripped my arms and pinned them to the asphalt, tore the skin on my knuckles, molested me.

"Stop your squirmin'." He brought his face down on my neck, whispered into my ear, "I ain't lettin' you get away this time."

There was a gunshot, and I saw Joe stumble away from my father, holding his nose and cursing inaudible insults at him, and then I saw the expression on my father's face. His eyes were empty. His head was twitching in some kind of deranged frenzy... almost like a walker. He threw a punch, but Joe got the upper hand again.

"Oh, it's gonna be _SO_ much worse now!"

There was another gunshot, but nothing changed. The man's hands were still under my clothes, and he still shoved me over onto my front, crushed my face under his hand, squashing me to the road, groping me, unbuckling his jeans.

"Come on! Get up! Come on! Let's see whatcha got!" Joe leered at my father. "Right over here! What the hell're you gonna do now_sport?_"

I could feel it all. His hands, his breath, his weight, the road digging into my cheek, the cut up slices on my hands stretching and ripping.

But something happened.

Flesh ripped, squelching as it was torn from its source, and then I heard the gargles. I watched as thick pulsating blood poured from Joe's open jugular, and he dropped to the floor, and I saw Dad grimace as he spat out the skin and artery and wind pipe of the dying man.

Michonne took out Tony, then helped Daryl take out the two men who'd grabbed him. I should have fought then, too, but I was traumatised. So the man grabbed me around the shoulders and wrenched me from the road, and he held me up, pressed the cold sharp knife to my throat.

"I'll kill 'im! I-I-I'll KILL 'IM!"

"Let the boy go!"

My father marched at him, nothing but rage and murder in his eyes... the same eyes that I've inherited. "He's mine," is all he had to say for the claimer to drop me from his grasp, and Michonne held me, and Dad drove his knife through the man's gut.

Michonne tried to hide my face, but I wanted to look. So I did, and I keep watching as my father gutted him. I watched as his entrails spilled from his sick anatomy and splattered to the road at Dad's feet. The man was screaming until he couldn't anymore, until he was just silently begging Dad to stop, or maybe just to kill him already and spare him from his agony. But Dad wasn't so kind... and I was glad of it... I wanted to help him.

But I just watched, heard the _shuck... shuck... shuck..._ of the stolen blade as it was driven through the man's body over and over again even though he'd been dead for a long time, and my father mutilated the man's corps, and then, when the new monster finally awakened from his death, I watched Dad decapitate it, so brutally that the walker's head rocketed off and rolled across the road.

Now?

Now I'm walking up.

Again, I'd been dreaming.

About him.

I was sat with him for a long time, neither of us saying anything or even looking at each other. Until finally I asked him, "From what? What were you rescuing me from?" I was angry, and I didn't know how not to be. "What were you rescuing me from, before?"

And he just said, "Yourself, Carl."

It infuriated me. "This... this isn't... This isn't what I wanted. I didn't want to turn into this!" I was exploding, and all he did was watch it happen. "I don't... I... I don't... I DON'T WANT TO BE A MONSTER!"

I wanted to know what happened to him, how he escaped, but I couldn't do anything, and it enraged me.

"You're not even real. YOU'RE NOT HERE!"

I wanted to lunge at him. I wanted to hit him to make him talk to me. But I just kept screaming.

"FUCK YOU! YOU'RE NOT EVEN HERE! YOU'RE GONE! YOU'RE NOT REAL...! YOU'RE NOT! FUCKING! REAL! LEAVE...! LEAVE ME ALONE! FUCK OFF! FUCK! OFF!"

And he did. He didn't dissolve, or fade or blink away. He just _disappeared. _Gone. Right before my eyes, and it was in that moment that I realised how much I needed him.

I'm almost relieved when I realise that it was only a nightmare, and that I'm actually sat along the truck back seats with my head in Michonne's lap. But then I remember all over again that Oliver _is _gone, and the events of last night reacquaint themselves with my memory, making me sink into Michonne's lap and keep my eyes closed, not wanting to awaken yet and dreading the moment that I have to step out of the vehicle and embrace reality. So I stay still, pretending to sleep, feeling Michonne gently brushing my hair out of my closed eyes.

"Shh," she whispers. But doesn't tell me that I'm okay or that it was all only a nightmare, because I am not okay, and what happened last night was not just a nightmare.

"I didn't know what they were," Daryl's raspy Southern drawl from outside breaks the short quiet.

"How'd you wind up with 'em?" Dada asks.

"I was with Beth," Daryl answers. "We got out together... I was with 'er for a while."

"Is she dead?"

"She's jus' gone," Daryl replies. _Gone..._ Just like Oliver. "After that. That's when they found me. I mean, I knew they were bad, but... they had a code. It was simple. Was stupid. But it was somethin'... It was enough."

"Hey, you were alone."

"They said they were lookin' for some guy an' his kid. Said the kid's trail went cold right at the beginnin'... wern't worth goin' after 'im. Didn't know they were talking 'bout..." Daryl doesn't finish, and I swallow the hiccup away. "They'd been trackin' the other guy since it all happened, well, las' night they said they 'spotted 'im," Daryl says. "I was hangin' back, I was gonna leave. But, I stayed... That's when I saw it was you three – right when you saw me... I didn't know; what they could do."

"It's not on you, Daryl," Dad says. "Hey... It's not on you. You bein' back with us, here, now... tha's everything. You're my brother."

Michonne strokes my forehead again, and I resist the urge to wince as her fingers graze too close to the scrape on my cheek, but, unwilling to let her know that I'm awake yet, I stay quiet, dealing with my own sorrow alone.

"Hey, what you did last night," Daryl says finally. "Anybody woulda done that."

"No, not that."

"Somethin' happened; that ain't you."

"Daryl, you saw what I did to Tyreese," Dad says. I remember the bruises on both Dad's and Tyreese's face the day after I noticed my dad's mashed up hand. He never told me what had happened, but I had figured it out eventually. "It ain't all of it, but, that's me... that's why I'm here now, that's why Carl is... I owe his life to Oliver... I owe all our lives to him. He sacrificed himself for us, an' I can never forgive myself for that. Jus' before... everythin' happened... Oliver... he told me to keep him safe. Told me to keep _my_ boy safe... I knew then... that, there was somethin' else... somethin' _deeper_... so... I am gonna do right by him. I owe it to Oliver, an' to my boy. I'm gonna keep 'im safe... That's all that matter's."

I don't know when my eyes had opened, all I know is that now I can see the inside of the truck as I stare ahead of me in a haze, blinking away the brightness of the morning sun trying to shine through the covered windows. My mind spins, confused by to what extent my father really understands what mine and Oliver's friendship was together, and whether he meant it any more than that at all, and if he did, why he's never said anything about it to me before.

My chest aches with my sadness and frustration, and I try to lose myself into nothingness, escaping into my imagination to find Oliver again. But I feel Michonne lean forward to look down at me, finally noticing my consciousness.

I look up at her, pursing my lips and wiping a tear as it escapes the corner of my eye, waiting for her to try to console me in some way, but she doesn't say anything, and I am glad, so I sit up.

For a long time we just sit in silence, losing ourselves in our thoughts. Until I can't bear it any longer so I finally climb out of of the truck and march around it, searching for the bodies that were littered here from last night. But there gone. I sigh in irritation, then go around the truck to see if the dead men are there instead, but I stop in my tracks as I see the dried crimson soaked into my father's face as he sits beside Daryl on the road against the side of the truck.

He stares at me for a long intense moment, as if he's waiting for me to scream in horror and run away. But his appearance doesn't scare me nearly as much as I think he thought it would. In fact, I hardly blink an eye at him.

"Where're their bodies?"

Dad looks taken aback by my question. His swollen mouth opens and closes as he tries to answer me, but fails. So Daryl answers instead, "I moved 'em outa the way. You didn't needa see any more than ya already did."

I narrow my eyes, offended that he thinks that seeing those dead and gutted bastards would effect me any more than everything else already had. But instead of voicing my irritation, I ask another question, "What did you do with their weapons?"

Daryl hesitates a moment, narrowing his eyes right back before finally gesturing his knuckle towards the front of the truck. "Took everything useful an' put it over there. Go ahead an' load up if you find the ammo you need."

Ignoring my father's concern and confusion, I look around and see the small mound of belongings, turning on my heel and marching straight for the weapons, though I'm not looking for more ammo like Daryl thinks.

I rifle through the pistols and machine guns and supply bags and porn magazines. _I'm guessing Daryl kept those for fire burning rather than anything else. _Though, I begin to get frustrated when I still don't find anything that could be of any kind of clue to my missing friend's fate or whereabouts, because that is what I'm doing. Searching for anything to tell me that he is still alive. But then, just under the custom bow and bright green array of bolts, I spot it. . .

Oliver's machete.

I freeze, staring down at the blood stained blade, knowing that it's his from the doodles of super heroes and cartoons that I'd drawn on the handle less than a two weeks ago.

It was in the suburb house the day Michonne arrived. It was before the run with the walker-baby and the grapes, before he told me he loved me, before I asked him to be my boyfriend. Just in those few quiet hours of the morning while we had just settled a little after Michonne had found us. I was bored, and Oliver was out on the porch speaking to Michonne about something that I wasn't particularly interested in, and Dad was passed out again on the couch in the living room; exhausted after the emotional exertion that greeting Michonne had caused.

I saw the blue marker and didn't even try to look for paper. So I just grabbed Oliver's machete and went to work on it, drawing whatever came to my mind on the handle. When he saw what I'd done to the red handle that was now littered with wet blue ink, he wasn't happy.

"Oh, come on, Man!"

I was sprawled across the bed at the time, still with the pen between my fingers as I was in the process of finishing a doodle of two stick figures having a sword fight, but he pulled it off of me.

"Dude."

I scoffed. _"Dude?"_

He opened his palm and glanced at his skin, and his eyes suddenly rolled in annoyance. "Dammit. The ink's come of on my palm, Carl."

I laughed.

"You're such a jerk, man," he said, but he was laughing, too, and he knelt beside me, and I sat up.

"Sorry," I said finally, though, I didn't mean it. But then Oliver leant in, and instinctively I did too, having not kissed him since a day before when that walker almost tore my foot off. I didn't know if I could kiss him again so soon, because I had no idea how all of that stuff between us worked yet, and I guess I still don't... never will. Though, Oliver didn't intend to kiss me anyway, as his behaviour was just a distraction while he lifted his hand and smeared the still-wet ink on his fingers over my cheek.

I pulled away in disgust and embarrassment, groaning as I tried to wipe the blue away. "You ass," I grumbled at him, trying not to think about my burning cheeks.

"Pay back," he said, satisfied, chuckling, and at the time I didn't appreciate his laughter as much as I do now. I was wearing my gun in its holster at the time, and Oliver reached over and pulled my Colt from its place, bobbing it in his hands for a moment before glancing at me through his eyelashes. "Can you show me how to load it up?"

"I thought Carol taught you in _Story Time,_" I said, mocking him because I am the worlds greatest grudge holder.

"She did," Oliver said. "But I'm better with rifles – only tried it with a pistol a few times."

So I showed Oliver how to disassemble and reassemble the gun, and then how to reload and charge it, until Michonne called us downstairs to go over the game plan for the run she was organising.

I want to go back to that moment. I want to hold him and tell him everything I didn't tell him before. But I can't, so I stand up, clutching the machete in my hand and forcing myself not to break apart. When I turn around, I jolt to a stop when I see my father watching me.

"What?"

Dad almost winces. "Carl," he begins, struggling when he swallows the blood that is still laced in his throat. "Y'alright?"

I nod, shifting my gaze between the two concerned men. Daryl looks me up and down, his eyes lingering on the machete, and I blush, angry and embarrassed and weak. "I-I... I was jus'... I needed to know, if, uh, if they took it."

"Why?"

I glare, wanting to shout at him for such a stupid question. But I hold my tongue and shrug. But Dad keeps staring at me, waiting for me to tell him with words instead of just a shrug, but I grit my teeth, getting angrier. "Why what?"

"Why do you need to know if they took Oliver's machete?"

Proof. Reassurance. Evidence. Closure. Faith...

"I jus' do." At first, I think that's all I want to say. But then, without meaning to, I keep talking. "I thought, if I found something I'd know. But, it didn't help, s-so I... I don't know any more than I already knew before... Jus' that they took his machete, too..." I wince as I say the last part, trying not to think about what else they took from Oliver... and again, I think I am done talking, but my mouth moves of its own accord. "M-maybe... Maybe he made it. He's good at that, he's done it before; those five months without Patrick, an' when The Governor took him an' the others... so, maybe he found somewhere - stayed there on his own while he healed or something. He could have found the tracks, too. He could be behind us... looking for us. I wa-"

"Carl," Dad interrupts me.

I stop breathing for a moment, so tense and rigid that I am shaking. Dad opens his mouth to continue, but I speak before he gets the words out, my sentence leaving me without my impulse control being able to hold it back.

"Dad, I think Oliver is alive."

I keep staring at him, waiting for him to respond but already knowing what he will say. "Carl, I-"

"I know," I interrupt him. "I know, you... h-heard... it all." I shake my head. "But, Dad... he got out. You ran, remember? You ran, after 'Lou', that guy you killed, turned and attacked the rest of 'em. Oliver escaped."

Dad grinds his jaw uncomfortably, using a wet cloth to try to wipe a little more of Joe's blood from his face. "I don't know the answer to that," he admits. "I don't think I ever will. An', I'm sorry, Carl... but I don't think you ever will either... Oliver... is_gone..._ You. Need. To. Accept that."

"You know what, Dad...?"

I can feel the words. They rise up my spine and crawl over the back of my neck. For a moment I try hard not to say them. But I explode.

"Go _FUCK _yourself!"

I see his eyes widen and his mouth grimace into a snarl, but before he has a chance to give me what I am sure would be the scolding of my life, I throw Oliver's machete onto the pile of weapons beside me with a loud clatter and storm in the opposite direction.

I want to run into the tree line and never come back. I want to scream at the top of my lungs until my throat rips apart. But I know enough not to let myself run, being too starved and weak to do so, and I know not to go too far away, knowing that I'd only get lost and end up killing myself anyway. And I know to stay silent, because those walkers we got away from yesterday could easily still be near by. So what I do instead of all that is move out of my father's eye line a few hundred yards away from the truck, staying silent as I slump to the ground.

I bury my face into my bent knees, biting the denim of my jeans until I don't want to scream anymore.

* * *

**Notes**

Happy reading xx :_)_


	30. A, Part 2: T E R M I N U S

Re-edited: 02/09/2015

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Six Days. We've been walking along the tracks for six days now. It rained for the last two and a half. Then the forth day; day before yesterday, we found a stream and were able to wash up a little. We've seen too many Terminus signs to count. I mean, I was still trying to count them right up until the fifties. But I lost count after that.

We're okay.

Tyreese says he's okay. But he's not.

Carol says so, too. But she's worse.

I am trying to be. But, I'm not either.

So I suppose we're all doing pretty shitily actually. Though, Judith is okay. We all see to that. Since the Grove we've all just been making our way to Terminus, walking, walking, and more walking, but as always, keeping Judith Grimes safe and alive is our number one priority. A role in which all three of us seem to be equally as eager to keep to.

It's New Years Eve, or rather, _day,_ I think. But, it's wasn't hard to guess that none of us are in any type of festive spirit. I didn't think we have been for almost two years.

"We should think about heading out soon," Carol speaks for the first time in almost twelve hours. Her voice gentle and quiet, yet still such an abrupt difference to the natural quiet of the world that she ends up scaring the daylights out of me, to which she purses her lips apologetically and I tries to ignore my reddening cheeks, and I pull at my beanie awkwardly.

We're only a few minutes walk from the track. That trusty track. That track that I can't decide whether I love or hate, for it will either lead me to my family or lead me to the confirmation that my family is dead. That Carl is. . .

"Oliver..."

Again, I jump at Carol's voice, snapping me out of my thoughts like he so often has to lately. My zone outs are becoming more frequent; drifting off into my imagination however intrusive or unpleasant they are, sometimes getting so lost in them that I almost forget about the real world.

But that's what I'm so grateful for; Tyreese, Carol and Judith here to stop me losing my mind. Unlike those five months alone when I had no one there to help me keep my sanity, almost causing me the total loss of it.

"Yeah?" I mutter my fist syllable since I woke up the morning before. Not talking is something we all do a lot of now. The first day we started our journey, none of us spoke once.

"Hand me the formula?"

I reach behind me and grab the supply bag, taking out a bottle of water and the container of formula powder, popping it open, checking how much is left. . .

_Shit. _A wave of fear swamps me ten times over. _How did the formula go down so quickly? __**I could have sworn it was mostly full the last time!**_

"Oliver?"

"There's not enough."

Those three words. Those three words that mean the absolute worst to us.

"How much is not enough?" Carol asks, doing well to expel the terror in her voice, though, the colour drains from her face.

I hand it over to her, and she stares at the bottom of the container, looking as though she's glaring into a black hole. Sure as hell feels like the formula's been lost in one somehow.

"There's enough for today, if we water it down," Carol says finally, though, I know _water it down_ means that there's barely enough for one serving and that we have no choice other than to spread it out over two servings. It wouldn't be enough formula, but at least Judith would still feel as full as if it were. "We'll be at Terminus by Sundown anyway. We have time." She starts preparing it, handing me Judith. "We can loot a store or something if we come by one. I saw on the map that there's a crossroad a few miles up the track and that the road leads to a town. Macon, I think? Or, something like that."  
I nod determinedly, "Yeah. Yeah there is."

"We'll leave for it first thing, once Ty's awake," Carol says quietly, talking more to herself than to me; something he does sometimes now, too.

"Shall I wake him?" I ask, watching the man beside her, fast asleep.

"No... No, let him sleep. It's early."

I watch her feed Judith her formula (her formula that is more water than actual formula) I know that Tyreese's forgiven her. But we all know that it's another thing to move on... to let go of what she did. Because he hasn't spoken to her much, not since she told us what she did. But, he's getting there, and so is she...

"You should try to sleep, too," she says when she notices me watching her, but I don't look away, I just blink curiously, looking closer. "You've got bags."

"So do you,"I say back.

Carol smiles softly, but her brow raises in protest. "You're tired, Oliver."

"So are you."

She holds my gaze, that grey glow in her eyes only just beginning return after the Grove. The past days after getting away, the strength and virtue of Carol Peletier has slowly been mending itself. Slowly, and she definitely isn't there yet, nor will she be there again any time soon. But she's trying.

"I'll take watch," I insist, "I don't mind."

She relents, and so I stand up, stepping a few yards away from our camp over to a tree with a low and thick enough branch for me to sit at. I listen, gun and knife on my holster and a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, and after a while Carol lies down, and I hear Judith's light babbling as she curls up into Carol's form. They fall asleep after a little while again, and everything goes silent.

There it is again. That Deafening Silence.

It's everywhere. So quiet that it hurts.

The low buzz of insects and night life isn't even enough to fully break it anymore. Not since the girls. The quiet has become terrifying to me, and every time I go on watch it only seems to get worse. But it's worse trying to sleep through it. I can't. I haven't properly. Not since Mika and Lizzie. It drives me mad, that deafening silence.

I get up from my branch-seat and quietly rummage around in one of our supply bags, grabbing out a pen and notebook Carol took from an abandoned and once overrun camp a few days ago that we'd happened across while looking for a place to crash.

I tare a page out and put the notebook back, before taking the pen and paper back over to my tree. I like lists. Always have. So I take a deep breath. . .

"What do we need...?"

Immediately, I write:

_'- Formula'_

Then I realise just how much of it we need and so I add a _'(LOTS)' _to the end of it. "What else?"

Tyreese begins jolting in his sleep, grunting and gripping the earth in his fear. Another nightmare. He's mumbling again, too. The usual. Talking to Karen, Sasha... and he'll sometimes growl Carol's name, too. It was at its worst the first night after the Grove. Tyreese woke up so enraged that he grabbed Carol and roared at her. I pointed my gun at him, again, and that time I wasn't sure I was going to be able to back down. I screamed at him to stop, and he woke up and let go of her, and I wondered how many more times I was going to have to threaten to kill him before this would stop, and so I sunk to the ground and caught my breath again. But like I said, (and have to keep telling myself almost every day now) Tyreese has forgiven Carol. _**Doesn't mean that his dreams aren't still furious at her. **_

His nightmares have been happening less intense after that, and his arm is healing better, like my injured temple and abdomen. Carol is still always insisting on administering the tree sap.

_'- Antibiotics_

_\- Band-aids'_

I ad once Tyreese's nightmare dulls.

_'- Duck-tape'_

One of the duffel bags we took is beginning to tear, and I'd learnt a long time ago that there's pretty much nothing that duck-tape can't hold together. My machete being a good example. I'd found the red duck-tape in a DIY store with Patrick and another survivor we'd met a few days before. His name was Zane, and he had a little brother my age called Taylor. But, that doesn't matter. They're dead now.

_'- Diapers (LOTS)_

_\- Bottled water_

_\- Food_

_\- Canned food_

_\- Jarred food_

_\- Packeted food'_

_**Ravioli... honey... spaghetti... jam... prunes... corn... jerky... baked beans... potato chips... soup... olives... crackers... tuna... salsa... cereal... sauce... macaroni... Damned baby food for all I care.**_

I know I'm getting carried away, but I'm so hungry that it's somehow helping to write it all down.

_'- Any fucking food!'_

It wasn't helping. At all. _Maybe, I just, won't show the actual note to Carol or Tyreese, _I thought. _I'm not sure they'd appreciate the swearing._

_'- Especially M&amp;M's (not stale)'_

I cross a line then. Without even thinking about it, at first. But then it all floods back, and I think of Carl; my mind drifting to our conversations about Lori's awful pancakes, Michonne's stale M&amp;M's, the pudding and the grapes... not out of hunger anymore... but out of longing for the boy I was with in those moments. Those moments that I would sell my own soul for just to get the chance to go back and relive them.

Tears prickle at the back of my eyes, so I quickly scribbled that last item out, sniffing, "No one likes stale M&amp;M's anyways."

_'-Socks_

_-Ammo'_

I would to write more, but then the stupid pen decides to run out. I tap it against the paper, again and again, but no ink returns, and I get mad, irritated from the bad mood the M&amp;M's mention has given me already, and I end up scribbling all over the page, leaving deep marks in the paper but still with no ink coming off on it!

Something rustles.

My head snaps up from the paper, everything falling silent as I instantly stop scribbling, scolding myself for getting so worked up and losing so much focus.

Rustling. Again.

My breath catches and I scrunch up the paper, stuffing it into my pocket and quickly reaching for my Glock. Then I hear its growl. Low... struggling somehow, and I squint through the gloom, searching for the undead lurker that I can hear but cannot see.

My heart begins to pound, hearing it slowly come closer in my direction, and I click my tongue, wanting the walker to come for me rather than veer off and sneak over to the others in the off chance I could miss it. Even with the perimeter fence, we aren't safe.

My method works.

I see it, realising why it was moving so slowly and with such struggled movements as I make out the large bear trap attached to its right leg. It gargles through its torn jaw, reaching the only arm it possesses out towards me, the other arm torn off at the elbow with decaying muscle tissue and skin hanging from it in a way that should never happen.

I put away my gun and pull my knife from the other side of my hip. But my breath catches, a wave of nostalgia and guilt hitting me across the face as I grip Lizzie's blade in my hand. It's the first time I have touched it since Carol put it there. I'd vowed I wouldn't, and yet I've just unsheathed it almost without thinking about it at all... about _her_ at all... about them.

The walker is still ambling for me, but I stay still, frozen, and for one, single, awful moment, I wonder what would happen if I didn't try to stop it. If I didn't try to fight. I wonder what it would be like, to be a walker... I wonder if it really does change you. Not like the change we all know about already; turning you into a flesh-eating monster that preys on the living, but if it changes you like Lizzie always said so... but if there really was any trace of the real person left inside of it anymore.

It is inches away from me, and it lunges, and I flinch, my shoulders bunch up, anticipating the teeth. But it jerks, suddenly, and my eyes open just in time to see the jagged metal of it's bear trap caught on a root in its rush, as if some unforeseen force had grasped it to save me, and with another jerk, the walker comes free, losing its balance and crashing to the ground at my feet.

I gasp, snapping out of my stupor, shaking all over and only just realising the tears streaming down my face as I stare down at the growling and thrashing and furious corps, dodging its arms as it reaches for me, snapping its jaw so hard that a few teeth snap off.

It rises again, tries to lunge at me. But she's stuck solid, reaching her arm out to my face with only a few inches between its cracked nails and my tear drenched skin, so close that I could step forward and it would be able to get me...

But I have to stop thinking like that. The walker wasn't stopped by fate or luck. It was coincidence. The whole world would keep turning if it had grabbed me and torn my throat out. There's nothing watching out for me or Carol or Tyreese or Judith. There was nothing watching out for Mika, or Lizzie, my brother, my parents. Or Carl or Rick or Michonne. Just us.

So I wipe my face, scowling as I finally dispatch the walker, driving Lizzie's knife right through its eyeball and letting it slump to the ground with a heavy thud and crunch.

* * *

I went back to the tree, continuing my watch duties, trying hard not to think about what I had almost let happen back there, vowing to myself that I wouldn't lose focus like that again, that I wouldn't lose myself thinking about things that made me sad in such a dangerous circumstance.

Carol woke up after a few hours and took over watch for me. Tyreese was awake my then, preparing a hare that Carol'd shot the day before. Judith is beside him, chewing on a pecan she'd picked up.

"You okay, Oliver?" Tyreese asks me.

"I'm fine," I lie, scrubbing the dry tears off of my face that I know he's seen. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom."

I wish I lived in a world where I didn't have to announce that. But nower days it's basically a death wish to wander off alone with no one knowing where you are and what you're doing... especially out on the road.

I walk up the hill we're on, finding a clearing a few minutes away as I follow the faint, pink, morning sunlight, knowing that all I have to do to find the others again is keep the sun on my back. I find an appropriate place under a large willow tree by a fence, standing to face it and unzipping my jeans, and I go, peeing against the bark of the tree trunk.

It's as I'm doing this that I notice the scenery.

It seems, this morning, that I've managed to stumble across, probably, one of the most picturesque sights that I have ever witnessed in my life. I finish and zip myself up again, taking a few minutes to appreciate the view before Carol and Tyreese'll get worried, as they usually give me about five or ten minutes before they come looking for me.

The clearing I've found isn't merely a clearing, but the end of the woods we've been sleeping in. It leads down the other side of the hill to a small stereotypical-looking, town, with small, local stores and suburbs with square lawns and nice cars outside, and the place I'm stood by the tree on the top of the hill lets me see almost all of it, with a water tower to the far left and a school and playing field to the right that I can cover with my thumb when I raised my hand and shut one eye.

But the most outstanding thing was the sky. This early in the morning, the sun is only just rising from the East, casting its pink and red and yellow lights across the cloudy sky, until they clear over in the West a little and the sky becomes purple and orange and dark blue, even with a few constellations visible in the last few slithers of night that still stubbornly linger up there.

Then I see Venus, the pin-prick planet, and instantly I think of the girls.

Sometimes, if I close my eyes and think about them hard enough, they're here with me. I mean, not really _here_. But here in my mind, and I can imagine them stood on either side of me, Mika's hand in my left and Lizzie's in my right, walking with me and talking with me, their cool extremities holding onto mine as tightly as I want to hold on to theirs.

"I miss you both."

I'm not only speaking to myself anymore.

"... I miss all of you."

I'm speaking to everyone that I've lost.

"Judy's okay. We're keeping her safe. We're not letting anything happen to her... Promise." I stay quiet for a few minutes, gazing over the town as the sun slowly rises and emerges into the day.

"Oliver..."

I startle, the imaginary entities of Mika and Lizzie Samuels dispersing from either side of me as I spin around to face my disturber. Carol. "Hey," I blurt. "Sorry. I was, uh, I-I found something."

Carol walks closer, coming into view of the town as she climbs to the peak of the hill. "Oh, wow." We both spend a moment to take in the scene. "Ain't that somethin'?"

"It's beautiful," I whisper. "Kind of almost forgot that stuff like this still exists." Carol glances at me, smiling, and I bring my gaze back to her. "We could go loot a few stores down there?" I proposed. "Might get the formula faster than it'd take to get to Macon."

"We're less than a days walk away," she says, bringing her gaze back down to the dead town. "I just..."

"I know," I tell her. "You just wanna get there. I get it." she smiles gratefully. "Last night, I made a list of stuff we might need, on paper, you know, from that notebook."

"Yeah?" her brow rises, holding her hand out. "Can I see it? It's a good idea."

I hesitate. "Uh, I... um, it's sort of... _mutilated._"

"_Mutilated?_" She doesn't relent. "C'mon. I'm sure I've seen worse."

In no position to disagree, I fish into my back pocket and pull out the crumbled note. "Do you want me to read it out?" I try, embarrassed.

But Carol wasn't born yesterday. She cocks her brow, knowing that I'm only trying not to let her see what I'd done, but she extended her hand like a school teacher who's just caught her students passing notes. So I hand it over, and she reads it, and a sudden broad smirk explodes over her face, stifled giggles escaping her as she does her best to suppress them. "Well, we'll need a few more things, an' maybe we'll skip the M&amp;M's, but you got the most of it."

I purse my lips. "I would've written more but the pen ran out." _And I almost let a walker eat me._ "That's what all the scribbles are."

Carol exchanges a knowing glance with me, realising that the marks were more emotional than that even though I'm not making it obvious, though, she kindly chooses not to press and hands the note back to me, slinging her arm over my shoulder.

"C'mon. We'll get back, put some tree sap on your wounds an' then we'll head off for Terminus."

I nod, walking with her back to camp, and the first thing I do when we get there is stuff the note into the side pocket of the supply bag, out of sight, out of mind.

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Dad hasn't spoken to me, not since what I said to him. I've been ignoring the nagging guilt that itches in the back of my head all morning, that and the hunger. But right now all I can think about is flying between what we will find at Terminus and what happened to Oliver.

I know Oliver though, better than anyone – better than I know myself sometimes. I know that if he saw the signs to Terminus, somehow, he'd follow them, too. But I also know that he'd be afraid of what he'd find when he reached the end of the tracks. If I wasn't there or the place was overrun. To him it would confirm mine and everyone else's death... But I will be there. I will be waiting for him when he gets there... it's all I've got left.

We're walking along the tracks. I'm hanging back a little. Daryl, too, and he'd tried to make conversation a while back, but I evaded it.

_Maybe he's already there?_ Again, my mind goes back to Oliver and Terminus. _Maybe in those three days Dad, Michonne and I took out of our journey to go around the tunnel, he caught up a little more._ _Maybe he's only a few miles behind us. Maybe he even got ahead of us._

Dad diverges from the train tracks, spotting another Terminus sign on the floor almost completely buried under leaves and debris. He kicks the foliage off of the cardboard sign and reads it.

_'Sanctuary for all. Community for all. Those who arrive, survive. Terminus.'_

"We're getting' close," Daryl says. "We'll be there before sundown."

"Now we head through the woods," Dad says. "We don't know who they are."

It's cold, and I'm shivering, and I crane my head to read that we're only half a mile away from the end of the tracks, and I take a deep breath and hold it, exchanging a glance with Michonne.

"Alright," Daryl says.

* * *

We're staying silent, listening carefully and watching for any movement, so close now that the anticipation is torture. Until Dad holds up his hand, motioning to a mesh fence ahead. My grip fastens around my Colt, edging closer to the perimeter of the property with them, and we peer through the metal fence.

A large brick building with the words **TERMINUS** written in bold black writing over one side of the train station. A clean court yard out front with growing fresh vegetable gardens, even sunflowers, growing from the soil. Benches and wash bowls with plates and cutlery still inside. But no people. A long train track runs just outside of the fence on the far side, the same one we've been following for weeks.

This is it.

This is Terminus.

* * *

**Notes**

Hope you enjoyed! Please leave a little review on your way out to tell me of your thoughts :)

Happy reading xx :)


	31. No Sanctuary, Part 1: I Love You, too

Re-edited: 06/10/2015

* * *

"**Ease" by Troye Sivan**

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"We're close."

I look up to Carol from Judith, who has been propped on my hip since this morning. Her travel sack got too wet from the rain before and I've been leaving it empty on my back to dry. The last thing we need for Judith is for her to get sick from mould. Mould can cause asthma, and I don't want Judith to be burdened with it like I've had to.

"Just a few more miles," I say, only, not aloud, letting the corner of my lips curve slightly despite the fact I didn't actually speak, darting my eyes up and down to each wooden beam that I walk over out of habit. It's all I seem to be doing lately on the tracks, like an obsession. Sometimes I imagine them as levels. Like on a video game. I don't care how sad it is that I'm proud that I've successfully gotten past level a million –that's kind of a rough estimate. I lost count once I'd gotten into the early four digit numbers. But it distracts me from everything else, so, whatever.

"I'm gonna get the three of you there," Carol says gently, "make sure you're safe." Tyreese comes to a halt as he reads another sign perched on the track in front of us, dismissing Carol a little. But I'm focussing on her, and she is focussing on me. "But I'm not gonna stay."

I frown at her. She looks at Tyreese. He purses his lips at her, silently accepting her wishes in a way that I never could. I frown at him, too, and he glances at me for a short moment, ignoring my expression before turning and continuing to walk along the tracks. I exchange a glance with Carol, waiting for her to explain. But she dips her head, avoiding my eyes.

_**What? They're just going to accept that. **__Tyreese is going to just let her go? __**He can't! **_**She **_**can't! Not to mention that I **_**won't**_**! **_I open my mouth to tell them this, but that's when we hear the groaning and the twigs snapping under lazy footsteps.

My hand juts out to Carol's, clutching Judith to my chest protectively, and we all see the rotten corpse. Carol looks to Tyreese for him to take care of it, since it's only the one walker and I am holding Judith. But he shakes his head in refusal, his brow arching. Carol frowns.

"I can't," he admits, and my heart aches at how much he sounded like Mika. "Not yet."

Carol even looks at him the same way she did the dead child; sympathetically disappointed, and I know she's experiencing the same painful déjà vu as I am. "You're gonna have to be able to," she mutters as she parts away from us and quickly drives her knife through the walker's torn skull.

She lingers on the track for a moment, knelt on the ground and losing herself in her thoughts. Sad. _Sadsadsad._ That's all there is lately. Something catches her attention. It catches mine and Tyreese's, too. It's the lazy figures of the dead strolling toward the tree line.

"_More._"

We rush from the train tracks together, scrambling into the tree line. I hold Judith close, flattening myself into the dirt between Carol and Tyreese. We peer over the small mound in front of us, wide eyed and hearts pounding as we watch the herd amble closer.

_**Shit!  
**__Oh god.  
__**They're coming right for us!**_

Gunfire.  
Lots of it.

It's so loud and so close that the walkers forget the meal they just saw scrambling off the track and turn around to make for the noise instead. I cover Judith's ears. I'm not really sure how much difference it'll make but I'm pretty sure that noise this loud isn't good for her, though I guess she's heard worse.

The herd leaves. I sigh with relief, lifting myself from the ground, and when I glance down at Judith I almost scoff at the sight of her falling asleep on me. _**But, all that gunfire! **_

"Bet it's like a lullaby to her," Carol says to me, only, not aloud, but I hear her anyway, smirking back, only, not smirking, just looking.

"That gunfire," Tyreese says as we all step back onto the track, "coulda been from Terminus."

I press my chin to Judith's forehead, whispering, _God I hope not, _into her head, and she presses her forehead back, whispers, _Don't worry, Oliver, _back to me_. _Judith and I do that. Talk into each other's heads. Or, at least I like to think we do.

"Someone was attacking them," Carol queries. "Or _they_ were attacking someone."

"Do we even wanna find out?" Tyreese takes the words from my mouth. Tyreese does that a lot lately. I don't mind. Talking's overrated anyway. He does a better job of it than I do.

Carol turns to us and nods. "Yeah," she answered, panting slightly. "There's another track due East. It'll get us there." I can feel my expression harden in concern. "We'll be real careful," she tells me, nodding surely and patting my shoulder before pulling away and looking to both Tyreese and I. "We're gonna get answers."

I shift my eyes between both of hers, pursing my lips and swallowing as I fight my ongoing conflict. But I nod, prop Judith higher on my chest, letting the first words in days pass my lips. "Yes, Ma'am."

* * *

"Do you want me to take 'er?" Carol asks. I shake my head. "Oliver, you've been carrying Judy for almost two days."

_She might disappear, _I worry.

_Oliver, she won't, _Carol looks back.

Carol and I think to one another, too. Or, again, I like to think we do. So I hand the baby over, curving my lips in subtle gratitude, because truthfully, my back is killing me. Judith is only about eight or nine months old so she is still pretty light, especially since there isn't all that much food, but it doesn't stop her from being so wriggly. She's a patient kid, I'll give her that, but eventually, boredom takes its toll on her, and so she wriggles and grabs at my beanie hat and scratches at my pimples to pass the time.

With the lack of wiggling, grabbing, pimple scratching babies on my hip, I revert to thinking about what is around me, listing through my senses and what they're feeling. Sight–trees, trees, and more trees. Smell–that odd earthy smell after it rains; petrichor. Touch–scratchy clothes, itchy balls, sweaty face, cold nose, feeling like I'm floating from all the walking. Taste–um... Gross. That gross taste from not brushing your teeth for too long. No, I don't need to think about that. Sound–the all too familiar noise of the trees and birds. Silent, but not silent at all. But then it suddenly isn't silently not silent anymore, because I become aware of faint screeching and pipping noises. Like a radio, crumbling through the natural silent not silent noise. It snaps our heads around to where we hear it from. But we don't see anything and it sounded far away. But then we hear the voices; faint, but real and alive.

We follow it, further into the woods. The talking becomes clearer. There's an old shack through the trees, and a run down blue car next to it. But my breath catches when I see a man in the baseball cap and a rifle slung over his shoulder. The three of us stop in our tracks and watch him, fascinated, like we've never seen a human before, hidden in the tree line and hoping that he won't hear our racking hearts.

The stranger peers into the boot of the car, reaching into it and grabbing out a sack of fireworks. He shuts the trunk and tosses the bag on the floor behind him, then grabs out a loaded yellow firework nozzle and places it on the ground.

"_Ten minute count._" It was a walkie talkie. "_You screw up, you're on your own, Martin_."

The stranger, Martin, fishes the walkie out of his pocket and brings it to his mouth. "You don't have to tell me. I wipe my own ass," he retorts through it.

I exchange a glance with Carol, silently asking her if she thinks he is from Terminus, and if so, or if not, wondering what it is that we'll do about him out of the two options we have; avoid or approach. But she doesn't give me any silent response, and I know she didn't on purpose, like she's preparing me for when I can't just talk in my head to her anymore because she'll be leaving soon anyway. But I stop thinking about that, aware of the rock in my throat, so I look back to the man as he rifles through his bag for another firework.

"Alex didn't get it. You see, I knew the chick with the sword was bad news. Bitch looked like a weapon with a weapon," he says.

_**Wait...**_

"_He was always a sloppy-ass mother__–__crrk–_" the woman responds in jest.

"Yeah, I told Albert I wanted the kid's hat after they bleed him ou-"

Martin doesn't finish his sentence. Because I'm right behind him, stood like a statue, my Glock pressed to the back of his skull and my finger hovering millimetres over the trigger. I'm vaguely aware of the hiss Carol calls after me, but my head is reeling, my gut feels like cement, weighing down and threatening to make my knees knock. But this is new. This is primal. Pure unpredictable instinct. It overpowers me.

"Drop it and shut the fuck up."

Martin does as I say, dropping the walkie talkie and holding his hands up in submission. "Listen," he says calmly, chewing the gum in his mouth. My skin crawls at the quiet, wet, jabbing, _chyak-chyak-chyak _noises. "Ya'll don't have to do this. Whatever you want. We've got a place where everyone's welcome."

"Shut up, man," Tyreese warns next to me, and without hesitating I jab the barrel of my gun into Martin's skull.

He flinches. "Okay. Okay."

"We're friends with the chick with the sword an' the kid in the hat," Carol explains bitterly.

That shut the dick up.

_**Carl's alive?  
**__**He's alive.  
**__**He's fucking alive, Oliver!**_

My mid reels, throbbing worse than when it did while I was still injured. I am too overwhelmed to respond to myself. Paralysed. Trapped in a stupor of shock and despair and relief.

"Oliver, drop the gun," Carol's voice snaps me out of my daze. I do as she says, only just noticing that Tyreese has already bound Martin's hands with a seatbelt he must have ripped out of the car. My eyes widen as I look at her, suddenly shaking all over as I pull my beanie off and strangle it in my Glock-less hand.

"Carol, h-he's.. He's."

"What's up with him?"

"Shut up." Tyreese lifts the tied Martin from the ground and makes him walk into the shack. My breathing heaves as I double over, too overwhelmed to think straight as my beanie drops to the floor at my feet.

But Carol shakes my shoulder with her Judith-less hand. "Oliver, I need you right now," she barks at me. "Okay? You need to focus. We're gonna get him... we're gonna get all of them. But you need to be with me on this."

I stare at her, nodding. "Yeah. I'm fine. I got this," I mutter as I holster my gun, swallowing to get my voice to be a little clearer. "I-I'm with you. I'm alright."

"Good," Carol says, handing Judith over to me. "Because I'm gonna need you. Now more than ever. No matter what. Are you gonna do that, Oliver?" I stare at her for a long time, knowing what she is implying... but for what I am doing it for... _who_ I am doing it for... there's no question.

"Tell me what I have to do."

* * *

"They attacked us. We're jus' holdin' them," Martin lies. I know that he is from Terminus now, he told us when Carol put her pistol to his forehead. Now, any hopes of it being a sanctuary for us has diminished entirely. _**There is no sanctuary. It's all been a lie. **_I shoot him a glare as I hand Judith over to Tyreese, and Martin narrows his eyes at me.

"I don't believe you," Carol mutters as she sorts through the sack of fireworks, slinging his rifle over her shoulder.

"Who else do you have?" Tyreese asks. "Do you know their names?"

Martin shrugs and shakes his head. "We jus' have the boy an' the samurai. That's it. We were jus' protectin' ourselves!"

"I don't believe you," Carol repeats, stern, cold. She glances over her shoulder to me, "go take down that rag from the wall," she instructs. "Yeah, that's it."

"There's a bunch of us out there, in six different directions. There's a lot o' gunfire back home," Martin tries. "We need to set up our charges all at the same time to confuse the dead ones with. That's good for you, too!"

"No it isn't," Carol interjects, examining the rag I took like a teacher grading homework. "There's a herd heading toward Terminus right now. We don't wanna _confuse_ them away... We're gonna need there help."

I furrow my brow in confusion at Carol, but she ignores my befuddlement and places the rag back into my arms before slinging the sack over her shoulder.

"It's a compound," Martin warns. "They'll see you comin' - if you even make it that far with all the cold bodies headin' over."

Carol and I turn to leave. Because _fuck you, Martin._

"Carol," Tyreese stops her, balancing Judith on his arm as he stares at us, "how you gonna do this?"

Carol takes a moment to answer, but when she does I am not nearly as fazed by her answer as I thought I would be.

"We're gonna kill people."

* * *

"Help me with this."

It's the walker she took out before. I help hoist it off of the track and into the cover of the trees, resisting my grimace as the stench fills my nose. Until finally we drop it on a flat enough part of ground. Carol kneels beside it and glances up to me, holding her arm out to me to join her. So I do, kneeling beside her, frowning at the walker, then at the woman.

"What are we doing, Carol?" I ask. "What's your plan?"

"You're not gonna like this. But–"

"Carol. I'm with you. No matter what."

She lets a small smile of gratitude tug at her lips, somewhat empathetic. "Get your rag and cut a slit in the middle of it," she tells me. I do as she says, using my knife, trying hard not to think about the little girl who owned the blade before me. "Put it on... That's it."

I think I know what she's getting at here as she begins pulling on the other blanket that she'd gotten, too. But I don't protest. I sheath Lizzie's knife and look back to the walker, tensing my jaw. Carl told me once about when his father and Glenn had to coat themselves in walker guts to escape Atlanta. The smell masked them, made them invisible to the walkers. I think Carol and I're going to need that invisibility by the size of the herd that is on its way to Terminus.

_I can do this.  
__**Fuckfuckfuck.  
**__I can do this._

Carol slices the walker through the stomach. Its entrails ooze out of it like a river, black, dribbling lumps of decomposing internal organs onto the leaves and soil. Carol sticks her hand in. I blow my cheeks out. She waits for me to stop doing that, then smears the rotting bowels over herself.

_I can do this.  
__**Ohh, fuckfuckfuck.  
**__I can do this._

She glances at me expectantly, and I suddenly become aware that my mouth is hanging open, appalled. I shake my head clear before she has to tell me to and then repeat her actions, grabbing a handful each of walker guts. It's cold, wet, gritty and lumpy. The bowls soak into my skin. But I can do this.

I only hesitate as I hold the guts in front of me for a moment though, and I kind of have to inwardly scream at my limbs to make them move, but I manage, and I spread the gunk over the rag, repeating this repulsive action over and over again, too many times.

Then Carol smears it over her face and neck.

_**NOPE...! NOPE...! NO WAY! No... fucking... way are you doing that! **_

"Just a little," she gags. "Use mud mostly. Don't get it in your mouth or eyes or near any cuts."

I ignore my inner hysteria and plaster the back sludge over my face, mimicking Carol without questioning her. I feel it smear and soak into my hair and skin, and the stench violates my nose, making me feel like I am drowning in it. That's when the gagging begins, and I finally lose to the fight against my pitiful stomach.

"_Huuurk – gruuuuuhhh! Burghh. Brukkk!"_

"Better out than in."

No, Carol. Canned peaches are _so_ much better staying in than coming out. She rubs circles into my convulsing back, cleverly using the opportunity to spread more of the rotten intestines over me at the same time. I yack more, groaning in repulse, slowly leaning up again and spitting, before wiping my lips as best I can on the small, clean patch on the back of my wrist. Carol doesn't say anything else to me, knowing there's nothing she can say. Not about this. She just watches me patiently as I recompose myself, and I do, regaining as much of my dignity.

"Carol?"

She's wiping the last bits of intestines over her own blanket. But she stops, nods. "Yeah."

"Are you really gonna leave us?" I'm panting, wincing. I can see the innards drying in her grey hair, turning it a muddy orange colour. "When we get to Terminus a-are you really gonna go?"

I know her answer. It forces my brow to arch, silently begging her to change her decision. But when the humble Peletier has made up her mind, I have come to learn that it is practically impossible to change it.

"Yes, Oliver," she answers. "I am."

* * *

I spot the metal mesh fence ahead as we climb the bank. There's a walker impaled on the wooden spike just beside it. We walk past it, and I wait for the walker to try and grab for us. But the suits do their job and it doesn't even bat a rotten eyelid.

"Put your backs to the walls at either end of the car!" Carol and I hear in the distance. "NOW!"

_Bang!  
__Fizz._

It doesn't sound like bullets or anything I've ever heard before. But there is a scuffle, a big one, with grunts and screaming and yelping and slamming. I exchange a worried glance with Carol. _Focus,_ she thinks to me, and we edge to the fence, crouching as we search around us for any of the potential people that Martin was speaking about that might have seen us on our journey over. But it seems clear out here, so we peer through the fence.

I see Terminus, for the first time. It's a train station, built into a place to live. My eyes scan over the bold **TERMINUS** letters on the side of the building, and then to the outdoor cafeteria where I see people stood at the fences taking out walkers. But then, to the far right of the property, where a big, red train freight is situated near the edge of the compound, a big white 'A' painted on the side. . . I see them.

Rick.  
Daryl.  
Glenn.  
Bob.

Relief isn't a word for it. Because it's not just relief. It's horror. It's fear. It's that skin flipping gut wrenching feeling before you yack. I watch them get thrown to the gravel with rag-gags in their mouths, their feet and hands bound with those plastic zip-things you get on parcels. When they're properly ordered, they're pulled to their feet by two men each and dragged inside the building. _**Where is he? Oliver, where is he?! **_I search for any sign of Carl, feeling my panic rise when he, nor anyone else I recognise other than the four men are any where in sight. They must be inside the building somewhere, too.

Carol places her hand on my forearm and I startle as I snap my head around. "W-where – where is h-"

"Oliver," Carol urges desperately. "Oliver, we gotta do this."

I force my breathing to calm as I nod to her and she pulls me to follow her along the fence, away from where Rick and the others were taken.

"Why don't we shoot the Termites now?" I protest calmly, burying my terror. "They're just over there."

"We won't stand a chance, there's too many of 'em," Carol answers reasonably. "We need to take 'em by surprise. We'll go to the front, pick off the people takin' out the walkers an' then work our way in with 'em."

We get to the part of the fence opposite the front of Terminus and Carol sets down the supply bag and prepares her rifle. I watch as she aims it at one of the people at the fence, gazing down to scope to see closer. I spot the boiler tank beside them, and I tap her arm and point.

"Good."

Someone screams. We startle, because the Termites are frantic all of a sudden, yelling and bawling as they back away from the front gates. But then I see what has terrified them so much as an army of dead advance on the train station. My heart pounds. Carol is fumbling with the supply bags and I watch as she grabs a firework and slides the thin, stick end of it into the barrel of her rifle, before propping it against the fence so that the yellow rocket sticks through.

"Oliver, the gas tank. Shoot it."

I've had a lot of time to practice since the Grove; taking out more squirrels and hare and pheasants than I can count, but I still doubt Carol's judgement in trusting me to make the shot so far away, but I don't voice my worry, taking a deep breath, bracing for the kick back.

_**PKOW.**_

I see the spark as the bullet bounces off the metal, hitting its target but not doing any damage. I glance at Carol, but she keeps staring at the boiler tank, waiting, like she is willing the tank to explode just from the power of her mind. I take aim again, inhaling, then exhaling, bracing for the kick back and pulling the trigger.

_**PSSSSSSSSS!**_

Steam erupts from the hole the bullet shot into it and walkers draw to the noise and movement like magnets.

"Cover your ears!"

I'm grabbed and pulled to take cover behind the metal beam in front of us. The fizzing of the firework that she'd just lit from the end of her rifle fills my ears. I hear the screech as it shoots off, and just in time I clamp my ears, doubling over into Carol's embrace.

_**BOOOM! **_

The force of the explosion knocks me off balance and rumbles the earth beneath my knees. But it does its job and I watch as the flames throw the walkers and rubble and bits of fence into the air like they're floating on a bubble of fire and smoke, releasing a shock wave that flattens any other walker nearby. Not deadly enough it seems though, because the walkers stand up again, growling and agitated as the flames begin to eat them up. But we want them to keep moving, because now they pour into Terminus through the blown out hole in the fence. _Fuck! __**So much for 'taking them by surprise.'**_ _What are you talking about? This is surprise enough! _

I look at Carol as she watches the cloud of dark smoke rise into the sky, and I tap her arm. So she nods, hopping up from the floor and slinging her rifles over her shoulders and grabbing the supply bag. We climb over the fence. Me first, sitting at the top to hoist Carol up and then both of us jumping down the bank together.

"Act dead."

I follow her lead, stiffening my posture and slowing my pace. Walking with the walkers. And it's working. So we keep going, ambling out of the way of any wandering walkers and doing our best to pretend to be part of the herd. We go through the fence, down the driveway, past the blazing flames and deeper into Terminus territory.

I grip my Glock tighter than I ever have before, my adrenaline and stiffness proving to be useful to add to the walker illusion I am putting up. We walk past the Terminus people as they are dragged to the ground and devoured, and I try to ignore the terrible screaming that they let out as they are torn from limb to limb.

One man, he's screaming, "Sarah!" over and over, even as he's ripped open, staring staring staring, and I look, too, and I see the woman, no, girl, she looks barely three or four year older than me, and she's screaming for him.

"Daddy!"

I suddenly flinch as bullets fire, feeling one wizz right past my ear and a walker behind me that was on fire drops to the floor like a rock, a black oozing hole through its skull, flames licking its way around its rotten body. Carol pulls me to take cover by a doorway. I spot the man ahead by the building opposite us, picking off as many walkers as he can, and I take aim, knowing that if I don't he'll kill us.

**BANG!**

His head pops backwards as my bullet travels right through his brain, and he slumps to the floor. My second kill. I only freeze for a millisecond. The floor turns to tar, and I sink into it, deep under. The building looms like walkers.

_Child, _people call me.  
_Buddy, _my father said.  
_Faggot, _the bullies goaded.

But the truth?

_Murderer._

I resurface into reality, and I'm taking aim at the second man atop the building. But the gunshot doesn't come from my Glock, and the man doesn't collapse to the floor from my bullet through his brain. Carol took him out for me.

_Thank you_, swallowing the rock in my throat. _Thankyouthankyouthankyou._

But our disturbance has drawn the attention of the walkers. A few turn on their heel and growl as they make for us. "Here!" I urge, grabbing at the door handle to our right and pushing it open, almost gasping with relief when I find it unlocked. Carol and I rush inside, slamming the door behind us and panting with our backs against it for a moment.

A hallway. Grey, long and cold from the dim light and lack of sun. Carol stops at the door at the end, slowly and silently edging it open. She nods, swings the door open, wide. I wince. It's light inside. Well, lighter than in here. I'm scared of it. So scared. I'm so scared I'm hugging myself. Carol has to take my hand, and I follow her inside, closing the door behind us.

My eyes fall upon tables against almost every wall, piled with odd objects like clothes and weapons and teddy bears and countless other things. I see the hats, and I rifle through them furiously, searching for the faded gold dangles and the thick brown rim of his sheriff's hat. But it's not here. I grit my teeth, not sure whether that's a good thing or not and ignoring my dread as I examine the other objects to occupy my mind.

Jewellery. Bracelets. Necklaces. Rings. Watches–but one in particular catches my sights, and my eyes linger on it without meaning to. I almost don't recognise it. But I examine the shiny ridged straps and the scratched glass face of the Rolex, the seconds hand that ticks but doesn't move, and the familiarity of it finally slaps me across the face. I snatch it from the table.

"Carol, it's Rick's."

I'm searching through more, but before I get a good look alarms ring in my mind at Carol's silence. So I turn, still grasping the heavy Rolex. Carol has her back to me, staring down at something.

"What is–?"

Oh.  
Daryl's crossbow.

Carol turns to me, worry flooding her expression as she presents the deadly object. It looks small and useless and ghostly without the man slinging it over his shoulder. Carol's about to tell me something. But she notices the watch in my hand and reaches, gently taking it from my palm. "It's Rick's."

"How did it get here? He didn't have it when we got out. He had another watch with a broken strap," I tell her.

Carol nods, almost smiling. But such a facial expression is hard to summon in this environment. "Yes," she mutters, pocketing Rick's watch that I managed to read 5:10 PM on. "It was Ed's. I gave it to Rick on the run I never came back from, after he gave his watch to a man and his girlfriend. Man's name was Sam, can't remember the girl's name. But we never got the watch back, Sam's girlfriend was dead when we went back. Sam was gone."

"He must have found his way here, too," I reply, hoping that he might still be alive but doubting it too much to voice my thoughts. Carol pulls the crossbow over her shoulder, throwing her chin to gesture me to follow.

* * *

Finally, deep in the train station, passing through empty rooms and more corridors, hearing more gunfire and screaming from outside, we step into another room. Only, it's not empty in here. It's full of belongings. Candles are dotted all around, littering the floor and on stands and hanging from walls. There's writing all over the floor, like a memorial or something. A shrine.

I search for something I recognise as we pass through, but I only read names of people I have never heard of before and it only seems to feed my worry. There's a door with a big, bold "A" on the side of it, like the train freight, and there are shadows of walkers flickering in the gap at the bottom. We'll take them out. We'll find our family. I'll find h–

My lack of focus causes me to miss the quiet closing of the door behind us, and the footsteps that don't belong to us. I hear the click of a gun, and then the stranger's panicked and exhausted voice thundering through the quiet.

"Drop your weapons and turn around!"

I startle, Carol, too, and I look around desperately, but Carol doesn't.

"I wanna see your face," the stranger growls, her voice panicky and breathless. She looks to be in late middle age, her clothes bloodied and roughed up, dirt on her face, long brown hair braided over her shoulder. "NOW!"

I startle again, crouching to drop my Glock, pulling out my knife and dropping that, too. Carol slides Daryl's crossbow off her shoulder and then begins pulling off her rifle. But before I know what has happened, Carol suddenly swings around and shoots wildly at the woman. I flinch, reflexively covering my ears from the noise and watching the woman leap to the floor. Her gun slides across the cement, knocking into a few candles, and Carol sprints for her. But the woman leaps up, grabbing her, pinning Carol to the floor into a violent wrestling match. But I have already grabbed my Glock.

"STOP!"

She's raised a long, thick candle holder, ready to slam it into Carol's face. But she becomes aware of the gun aimed at her skull, and she freezes, swinging around and staring wildly at me, knowing that she's lost. Carol shoves the lady off of her, edging to stand beside me, rifle raised.

The woman heaves a sigh, exhausted and visibly aching as she rolls her head back to stare at the ceiling. "The signs," she begins, looking back to us through the straggles of her hair, "they were real. It _was_ a sanctuary." She draws in a deep shaky breath, tears welling. "People came and took this place–"

"Jus' tell us where–"

"And they raped. An' they killed," she interrupts Carol, tears rolling down her cheeks. My brow arches, and my hand starts to fall, but Carol glares at me, and I snap out of my humanity, block it out, hovering my finger over the trigger of my Glock again. "And they _laughed. _Over _weeks_!" Her expression intensifies in her rage and turmoil. The same turmoil that I try not to relate to. "But we _got out_! We fought it! We got it _back_! An' we heard the message! You're either the butcher or your the cattle."

_**She's insane.**_

I'm staring at the wall behind the insane lady, shivers of cold running up and down my spine like ghosts. The wall, in bold black paint, it reads:

**WE FIRST, ALWAYS.**

"The men they pulled from that train cart, where are they?" Carol orders, and the woman doesn't answer, so Carol puts a bullet through her thigh. My whole anatomy quakes as I watch the stranger collapse to the floor, screaming.

"WHERE ARE THEY!" Carol roars.

The woman looks at me, drawing in a loud breath and stifling her cry with pursed lips. "Now... point it... at my head," she gets out. I'm panicking. I'm screaming. I'm terrified. But on the outside it looks more like glaring and aiming and hating. Carol doesn't move as she keeps her rifle trained at the stranger's stomach. But I move. I do as the woman asks and aim my Glock right between her eyes.

"Where. Are. They. . . ?"

The woman begins sobbing and laughing and gasping at the same time. "You could have been one of us!" she pants loudly. "You could have listened to what the world is telling you!"

"You lead people here and you take what they have and you kill them? Is that what this place is?" Carol asks in disgust.

"No," the woman pants and shakes her head, cradling her shot leg in her hands as she lays sprawled across the floor, "not at first. It's what it had to be... and we're still here."

I feel my brow knit into a tight frown, disgusted and enraged. Carol lowers her gun, but my hold doesn't waver as I ready myself to pull the trigger, blocking out my conscience and morality.

"You're not here," Carol says, stepping towards me, and her hand smooths over my shoulder, almost whispering in my ear, "an' neither're we."

I feel her other hand on my forearm, snaking her fingers along my sleeve, and I look at her, glaring murderously. _Why?_ I ask her. _Why isn't she answering us? Why is the thought of killing her so easy to me?_

"C'mon, Oliver."

I back away with her, grabbing Lizzie's knife from the floor and sheathing it. I'd been staring at the Termite, and she'd been staring right back. But I hear the fire escape door click as Carol pulls it open, feel the sunlight shine through onto my spine, soaking through the damp walker guts. The walkers stumble into the room, amble right past me, ignoring us as if what Carol said is true; that we're not here. But they see the injured woman in the middle of the room.

"NO! No. N-no! NO!"

* * *

We're in a big courtyard-looking place, debris and walkers and old run down cars with broken windows and rusted frames scattered around everywhere. We cross it, acting like walkers. The gunfire's slowed to only a few shots a minute now. But it's clear that it is the walkers who are winning this time.

"Oliver."

I hear her over the growls and moans and screaming. She's pointing ahead to a big, red train car. The same one as before. Only, we're on the right side of the fence. I stare at the big, white 'A' on the side of it, maintaining my pace despite wanting nothing other than to sprint over to it. It's open now and dead walkers litter the ground around it. It makes me churn, every organ and cell and atom.

When we finally get there, Carol keeps watch while I climb up into the freight. Empty packets of oatmeal and powdered milk litter its entrance.

"Michonne?" I whisper, her name echoing off the metal walls. Ringing in my ears. I see something on the floor, crumpled and dirty and dark blue. I pick it up. It's a hoodie. The zipper's torn off. It looks about his size. I bring it to my nose, inhaling, and my eyebrows arch in the middle, my whole expression crumpling as I recognise the scent. His fear and his worry and his grief in his sweat. I can smell it, as weird as it might sound. I look up, hugging the fabric to myself. "Carl?"

No answer, of course. Empty train freights don't have voices.

"Nothing," I mutter when I leave, trying to hide my dread.

Carol sees the hoodie tied around my waist, but she doesn't ask, just turns and scans the area. "There's too many walkers, we gotta go," she tells me.

"They might still be in th–"

"Oliver. There's too many. Look, they got out. We'll find'm. I promise." I'm grabbing at her hands, not pulling or protesting, just needing something to hold on to. "I'm not getting you killed," she tells me, pulling me to go with her. "We have to go... now."

There's so many walkers I can barely hear her. They surround us. One or two double glance when they notice my behaviour, so I stop, and when a body shambles up to me and stands right before me, I avert my eyes, tensing up, and it gargles in my ear. It glares hungrily at my neck. Carol stares at me, terrified, her arm readying her rifle, and I close my eyes and hold my breath.

But it turns away and moves on.

Carol takes my hand when we both remember to breathe again, "There's a path," she says, and I look. There is, but not one made my walking. She means a path of walkers, and it leads all the way from the freight to the inner track towards the fence, their blood still oozing out of their caved in and shot up skulls. This all happened recently, possibly even just moments ago. "We have to go." We see the place that they would have escaped, the thick rag on the top of the fence, used to climb over the barbed wire. But walkers are piling over it, chasing the meal that must've only just gotten away. But we can't follow without getting notices and so we have to find another way. "Stay close."

* * *

We're outside of Terminus territory, in the woods. Carol is holding my hand, and we're running. Running running running. Fuelled by adrenaline and the will to find our family. Three walkers are chasing us, they're faster, newly turned Terminus residents, haunting us for murdering their family and home.

We take them out. One at a time. Hiding and waiting and ambushing. Slowly and carefully. Exhausted and suffocating. "C'mon, we can't stop here," she keeps telling me. So we keep running. Running and running and running. Deep into the woods. Until I can't keep going anymore, and I face plant, dragging Carol down with me because she hadn't let go of my hand.

"Take your inhaler," she pants, helping me find it in my pockets, catching her own breath while I take about thirty doses at once.

"We got away," I pant when I'm not suffocating anymore, shaking from the Ventolin high. "_They_ got away... Carol, we did it."

"Yeah," she pants. The woman reaches into her supply bag and pulls out a bottle of water. "Here, try to wash some o' the muck off your face." I do as she says, cleaning the worst of the entrails, dousing my hair and neck. Carol washes as much of the guts off of herself, too, before drinking a little, then handing it to me. "Drink the rest." I do, realising how parched I am when I feel the warm liquid cover my dry mouth, swallowing it all in one. "We gotta keep moving."

* * *

We're follow their tracks. People we can only hope is our family. My heart is kicking me in the gut a hundred times a second, and the further we go, the closer we get, the more terrified I become. Carol and I don't talk. Just hold on to each other's hand. Focussing on listening. My skin tingles, and the hair on my neck and arms is stood to attention. As if I can feel or sense them all. Like I can sense _him_ close by. My imagination runs away with me. I picture finding a cabin, like the one Tyreese is waiting for us inside, only, it's bigger. It's a mansion. It has chandeliers and mahogany dining tables and chairs when we walk in. And Carol is wearing a pale red dress, her hair brushed neatly and big diamond earrings dangling from her lobes. Her heels clip-clop like a horse as she walks. I'm with her, of course, and I, too, and in formal attire. A black suit and bow tie. When I look at my shoes I can see my clean and groomed face in their reflection. When we turn into the dining room, the starts reflecting from the crystal chandelier overhead blinds me, and for some reason there are floating candles like in Hogwarts, lined up around the room. Everyone is inside, talking amongst themselves, laughing and happy and healthy. Daryl, Michonne, Rick, Tyreese, Judith, Sasha, Maggie, Glenn, Bob, Beth, Molly, Luke, even that guy, Sam, who's girlfriend died. When we're greeted, and I ask where Carl is, and Rick smiles. "He's been with you all along, son," he says, and his eyes glance to my side. I look, too, and of course, there he is. I just smile, and Carl just smiles back, and so we are just smiling, and it's everything I've ever wanted.

Voices.

"The hell we still around here for?" someone questions, his voice deep and authoritative... a stranger. My heart and stomach drop, convincing myself it's more Termites.

But then. . .

"Guns. Some supplies," another man answers. A man I could recognise anywhere from the Southern drawl and raspy tone. Rick Grimes. "We'll go along the fences... use the rifles. Take out the rest of 'em."

I'm not sure why, but Carol and I don't quicken our pace. We quieten it. Synchronising our movements, like, the longer we can prolong this the more likely it won't turn out to be a dream. So we go through the woods, hanging off of every voice we hear.

"What?" Glenn Rhee. Magnificent and incredible and amazing Glenn Rhee.

"They don't get to live," Rick responds.

"The fences're down." Maggie Rhee. _MaggieMaggieMaggieMaggie!_ "They'll run or die."

Then Carol and I stop in our tracks, seeing them through the trees, mesmerised and overwhelmed and hypnotised. There are four people I've never met before, two women and two men. Sasha is there. Bob, too. Glenn and Maggie. Rick. . . and then. . .

Breathing is such an incredible thing. Turning oxygen to carbon dioxide with two big sacks in your chest. Breathing is overrated. Even now, I forget its importance. Because I stop breathing all together. I stop existing. I stop everythinging. Because he's there. He's _really _there. . .

His sheriffs' hat is there. His flannel shirt and jeans and odd shoes. His long dark head of hair, flopping in every which direction under his hat. The red graze on his right cheek. The electric blue eyes that scan over his father, unbeknownst to mine and Carol's presence. So vibrant that I wince when I see them. Relief. Joy. Catatonic elation. It's like nothing I've ever experienced before. It consumes me. I hit a wall, at top speed, with a car, inside a train, off of a cliff. My exhaustion and fatigue engulfing me so powerfully that all that keeps me stood up is my rigid legs beneath me and my arms as I clutch to a thin tree trunk.

Carol touches my spine, and her movement is what finally draws them all to our attention. But I'm not paying any of that any thought. Because his bright and flawless eyes meet mine, startling, and he too seems to forget the importance of breathing. My shoulders droop and my brow arches, every ounce of relief erupting from every pore on my body.

Then he suddenly does remember to breath, unlike me, and I hear the sudden bashing of his feet as he flies towards me. I hardly realise that I'm moving, too, adrenaline and desperation fuelling my exhausted body. This is nothing like when I found Patrick again after those five months alone. I remember not knowing what I was doing as I ran for my big brother. Unlike now. Now I know exactly what I am doing as I sprint for the boy I love.

He leaps into my arms, or I leap into his, I don't know, but we crash, rather brutally to be quite honest. And without any regard for who is around us. He's warm. He's so warm that it burns. It burns to bad. So good. So. . .

"Carl."

We lose ourselves in each other's embrace, whimpering and mumbling into each other's necks, and it amazes me that we're still even standing. But then Carl lifts me, shock and ecstasy proving to be enough to temporarily charge his muscles, and so my hiking boots suddenly leave the earth, and I have half a mind to wrap them around him and roll around with him on the floor like a cat inside a ball of thread, but he realises what he is doing and grounds me again. I keep hold of him anyway, and he keeps hold of me, too, and we cry, cry and cry and cry, tears of overwhelmed joy and despair and relief and longing pouring out of our souls and into each other's. Holding each other with all of the long overdue affection that has built up over the past week that we have cruelly spent apart, convinced that the other was dead, and letting them all come out now in this one moment with each other and to each other.

"You were gone." His voice. It reduces me to another wave of tears, instinctively tightening my grip around his shoulders and lacing my fingers under his sheriff's hat into his hair. He almost collapses against me, clutching around my middle. "They said – th-those men, they–" He shakes his head against my collarbones before he can finish, whimpering, chocked sobs escaping him instead of words until he finally finds his voice again. "Oliver, y-you were gone. You were gone."

"I'm here," is all I think to whisper into his ear, making sure that he doesn't fall. His fists tighten into the back of my shirt, my own into the back of his. "I'm here, Carl."

"I love you, too."

I'm not sure what kind of noise to call what comes out of my mouth at this. My face contorts, and I crumple into him, like a fucking towel. I almost black out, too exhausted to take this without turning into a hysterical piece of skin and fabric and hormones. He's hiccuping against my chest, gently rocking both of us side to side.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," he whispers over and over into my ear. "And I'm n-never letting you go again."

Our foreheads are pressing, sweat and snot and tears covering our faces, and his hat lifts from its place slightly. My breath is coming in rasps, feeling so filled with Carl's words that I am sure my own words will spill out of me and flood the entire woods. I can hear Carol's embrace with Daryl, their hitching breaths and shuffling footsteps and I become aware of how many people are actually around us right now, and fear leaks into my expression. But Carl keeps staring at me, and I soak in the rays of him if he is the sun itself, watching his eyes shift between both of mine, shining and sparkling from his tears against the setting sunlight.

"Did you do that?"

I look at him. Rick. Detaching myself from his son. I have to look away when I see the way the man is staring at me. Like he's just seen a whale wash up right in front of us. It terrifies me. _**Well, shit. **__Maybe __he'd have prefer the whale? Does Rick even like whales? Does he think whales are bad? What does he think of whales and their lifestyles? Especially out here in the middle of the woods! __**Oliver, shut up about whales!**_ Rick doesn't stop staring and my heart pounds violently against my rib cage. So violently that I'm afraid it'll knock me across the ground, pummel me into the earth. _**Maybe it will? **__Maybe _he _will?_ _**Well, I guess this is **__**one way for him to find out though. **__Erm. Y-yeah... _Worry creeps up my spine and churns my gut.

But then Carl's hand slips into mine, tangling our fingers. He's trembling. I tense up, too, my eyes snapping up at Rick. His expression remains unreadable, other than the utter shock and disbelief on it from coming across Carol and I out here in the first place. We're probably the last two people on earth he thought he'd ever see again, especially like this. _**Hey, maybe he doesn't mind whales? Maybe he thinks whales have as much right being out here in the middle of the forest as the rest of them?**_

I finally nod in response to Rick's previous question, glancing to Carol, for a terrified moment I'm afraid of what she's thinking, too. But it seems she's far too distracted to care about whaler or Carl and I. Because she purses her lips into an overwhelmed smile and nods, too, tears welling. I remember that Rick exiled her the last time he saw her, and my heart drops at the thought of him not accepting her back after everything that she's just done. _She's a whale, too, _I think. _A big beached whale in the middle of the woods._

But Rick embraces her, holding her in a close embrace by her shoulder and the back of her head. I feel Carl gently squeeze my hand in his, silently reassuring me, to which I instinctively run my thumb over the back of his skin, noticing the scabbing cuts littering his knuckles and palms. I am about to look at the injuries. But before I move, Rick pulls away and turns to us both, his brow arching as he takes in our hands entwined together.

But then, he wraps his arms around my shoulders. A moment passed in which I am unsure of what I should do, but eventually I remember that I, in fact, do have a functioning body. So I lift my hands and hug him back. I get that feeling you get right before I start crying my eyes out.

"Thank you," Rick chokes a sob, feeling it, too, patting me on the shoulder as if trying to stop himself from crying more than I, and I suddenly realise that he is thanking me for a lot more than what Carol and I did at Terminus. He pulls away, smiling and crying with his brow arched so high that his forehead could be a stack of papers. He steps over to the satchel he was digging at a moment ago and pulls it from the dirt, unzipping it, wiping his tears again before pulling out an object that I recognise instantly as my machete.

I can't help the long exhale I let out, thumbing at the familiar red handle littered with Carl's faded doodles. Rick's hand is on my shoulder, and I nod to him, wiping my tear soaked face. "Thank you," I get out, my heart exploding.

"You have to come with us."

* * *

Carol leads the way back to the shack a few minutes away, and I keep hold of Carl's hand the whole way, walking so that our sides press together comfortably. Words aren't even needed. We're just here, and there are no mansion shacks or crystal chandeliers or ball gowns and suits. But it's perfect.

I spot the shack and motion to it with my chin. Carl looks, too, and a smile tugs at his lips, though, he doesn't know what I am so ecstatic about, and so the teenage Grimes furrows his brow at me, both confused and delighted by my expression. I am about to answer his unasked question, but I'm cut short by a closing door.

Our heads dart, and my heart leaps to my throat, threatening to run away with itself as my eyes see the tiny white fleece and the fair unharmed skin of Judith held protectively in Tyreese's arms. Carl's hand leaves mine, suddenly and immediately, and I grin madly as I watch him, Rick and Sasha race to their family.

Rick practically snatches his daughter, holds her, and Carl cradles her spine and head, breathing her name in his joy and overwhelming elation, and even from here I can see him trembling. The Williams siblings embrace each other, hugging so tightly that I'd be afraid they'd break each other if I didn't know them.

Carl breaks away from his family, and he's doing this laughing crying thing with his whole body as he takes my hand, gently pulling me into a hug, and I think he'll kiss me, but he just stares, stares and stares and stares. I'm hypnotised, stunned to silence, and then his thumb runs over my cheek, and my breath shivers, my whole body does, and he pulls away and tugs me to walk over to the others. Rick takes his son's shoulder, gently holding both of his children in his arms again. He places his hand on my shoulder, too, tears soaking his beard. "Thank you."

I nod, feeling my heart throb in my chest and my chin shake as my emotions get the better of me. I hear Carl chuckle a sob as he pulls me to him into a bear hug, letting me rest my forehead in the crook of his neck until I settle enough to summon my voice.

"I'm so glad you're okay," I whisper to him. "I'm so glad all of you are."

* * *

**Notes**

So, I'm sorry if I kind of took the magic out of Carol and Daryl's reunion. But I figured that Oliver and Carl wouldn't have really noticed it as much as all of us did when we saw the episode. WHICH BY THE WAY WAS FUCKING AMAZING! OH MY GOD I WAS SO EMOTIONAL! I ADORED EVERY MOMENT!

Hehe, I know I'm a colossal dork, but I have decided that the red machete Rick mentioned is Oliver's... it just is okay!

Hope ya'll enjoyed! Please leave a little comment on your way out to tell me of your thoughts :D


	32. No Sanctuary, Part 2: Not There

**I Love Fanfics **Yeah, chapter 27 was pretty dismal haha, poor Samuel sisters :,) Thank you very much, that means so much to me! And I will try my best to keep it up! xxx

**inazumahunter **Wow, than you for spending so much time on it! Gosh, it still amazes me that people are willing to read it so much in such short time! Thank you! And yes, hasn't it? I have loved writing it, it's almost like Oliver is just an old friend now. Gotta love how writing can do that for someone haha, and yeah. It's been very important that Oliver fits with the story realistically. Glad it has paid off xx More will be coming x

**eli-XD-O **From the start, man. Thanks for supporting me this long! Means the world! Thank you for letting the story grow. The first ten or so chapters were awful, I'm glad you stuck through it all haha LOVE YA!

* * *

Re-edited: 06/10/2015

* * *

**Carl's POV**

We introduce Oliver, Carol and Tyreese to Tara, who Glenn met on the road before he found Maggie, Eugene, Rosita and Abraham. Abraham Ford, Rosita Espinosa and Eugene Porter had some time to explain their mission while we were in the train freight. I didn't understand most of it. Mr. Porter used words twice and spoke too fast, and the muddled sentences and strange terms he used were too unfamiliar to my mind for me to get much out of. But Abraham and Rosita are sure about still going, and Sasha and Maggie seemed convinced, too.

But I'm not really focusing too much on that right now. We can worry about it later. Right now? Well, my main priority in this moment is holding Oliver's hand and hugging my sister close as the three of us sit on the car bonnet together. We haven't said much to each other, Oliver and I, but we don't need to, not yet. I think right now it's just about having a little time to just be in each other's presence for a little while. Not in a dream or in our imagination or fantasy. But _really_ here.

Oliver glances at me, his eyes tracing around my facial features for a short moment. "I'll be back in a sec," he says almost apologetically, sliding off of the bonnet. I almost protest, but nod, realising I'm being ridiculous, and so watching him turn and go over to Carol and Tyreese. I prop my little sister higher on my hip, pressing my lips to the top of her head and closing my eyes. She smells like I remember. Like that weird pleasant baby smell. I open my eyes just as Michonne steps over and coos, stroking Judith's chin.

"She's grown so much, huh?"

I smile and nod, still subconsciously focusing on Oliver, king of keeping him in my peripheral vision as he greets Sasha, almost worried that if he goes too far then I'll lose him again.

"He's safe," Michonne says, slicing through my thoughts like the katana that was stolen from her. "You don't need to worry 'bout him right now."

I look at her, almost embarrassed for being so obvious. But I nod and purse my lips, though neither agreeing or disagreeing with her, thinking, _Yeah, right now... That's what I'm afraid of._ I can't fight the nagging dread, fearing what Oliver's been through over the last week. Those men? I was in a bad shape after it all went down with them last night. But they were stopped. They were killed. But with Oliver? He was alone. He had no rescuer. No help. I can see the scars. The one I knew was there on his temple where the Governor attacked him. But there's another. One that I haven't seen before stretching its thin, subtle, white line over the right side of his lower lip. I can see the long-since-dried blood stains on his clothes. I can see the pain and suffering in his eyes, leaking clues on what has happened to him, how hurt he'd gotten and how he escaped and everything else that he's been through since. But I can't ask now. I know that. So I stay sat on the car bonnet, distracting my worry by playing and cooing to my little sister.

**Oliver's POV**

Carol and I examine the dead corpses scattered around the shack, their dark, rotten blood and entrails soaking into the ground.

"What happened?" Carol asks Tyreese as he finishes speaking to his sister.

I haven't had much time to greet Sasha, what with her only just letting go of Tyreese. So I take now as my opportunity, catching her just before she goes to the others. She hugs me, groaning her gratitude into my ear, and when she pulls away she pats my shoulder and smiles at me, to which I smile back at her, not needing words.

"There were a bunch o' walkers out here an'..." Tyreese takes my should when I join their conversation. "He got his hands around Judith's neck."

"The hell?" passes my lips on a vicious hiss. Adrenaline and anger rushes through me, instinctively turning around to march into the shack to confront the bastard. But Tyreese takes my arm, using his other to stop Carol too as she's had the same outraged reaction.

"No," he mutters gently. "He's dead... I-I had to. So I did... I could."

Carol nods to him. I purse my lips, holding his gaze for a moment. _He__ did __it__?_ _**B**__**y the looks of it, these walkers were killed **__**in**__** his hand as well. **_He nods, as if he's confirming it, then motions me to go back to Carl and Judith. Michonne is here as well now, and she steps over to me, envelopes her arms around my neck into a bear hug.

"Hi, Michonne."

"It's so good to see you again," she says, squeezing me even tighter.

"You, too," I smile, burying my face in her dreadlocks and wrapping my arms around her middle, my whole mind still buzzing. Like a whole bee hive is in there. No, like I am a bee, and this is my hive, and I'm home after a storm. When we pull away, I grin as I see the discoloured, white, oversized shirt she is still wearing. "You kept it?"

Michonne sneers a quiet laugh, "Course," she says softly. "It's comfortable."

I catch Carl's glance when I step around Michonne, sitting next to him. He looks worried. I tilt my head, and his brow arches a little and he pushes his lips into a smile. "I guess you lost it then?" he asks.

I furrow my eyebrows in confusion, my heart rate picking up. _Lost what?_** _**My sanity? My humanity? My morality? **_****_Because, yeah, probably._**

"Your beanie," Carl elaborates.

I almost burst out laughing. The sick kind that makes me worry about myself. But instead my hands shoot up to my uncovered head, raking my hands through my hair. "Oh," I mumble, dipping and shaking my head in amusement, half wanting to mock his upset for the damned hat and the other half because I am genuinely worried about its whereabouts. "I had it when I got here."

_Where did I put it?_ **_Good riddance. Finally you got rid of the rag! _**_Shut up! __I think I took it off just after I confronted Martin._ **_I bet it's buried under those Termites back at–_****  
**

I spot the grey fabric on the ground a little way up the driveway, grinning madly as I slip off the bonnet and stroll over to it, taking it from the dirt and thumbing the beloved fabric.

**_Fine._**

Ignoring myself, I smack the worst of the dust off on my thigh and go back to join Carl on the bonnet, sliding the hat over my hair and getting that sense of familiar comfort again. It spreads over my body like it always does. Lets me relax my shoulders, breathe, exist.

"Pretty sexy," he whispers to me, repeating what I had said to him all those weeks back at the Prison.

"Thanks a million," I scoff sarcastically, and Carl glances at me, a close-mouthed smile pulling at his lips. They're chapped. Badly. _I think I have a solution... __**Hmm, seems he thinks so, too... **_Because he's leaning closer.

Butterflies. God, so many. But I suddenly realise, they're not the kind I remember. These butterflies make me tense up and flinch, suddenly and badly and before I can stop it. It takes me aback when his intention wasn't even to kiss me though, instead he presses our foreheads, and I can't decide if it's more of a shock because he didn't kiss me or because I'm almost _relieved_ that he didn't.

Carl notices my startle, and he's staring at me, and I'm staring back, uncomfortable and tense and awkward, and so I pull back gently._What's wrong with me? _I think frantically, heart rate picking up in panic. _Why am I so afraid?_

Carl starts scratching at his eyes with his other hand, carefully making sure Judith doesn't fall from his lap as he keeps the higher end of his arm around her. I focus on slowing my breath, thinking about how much I want to take his hand but how much my skin feels like its ringing itself out when I do. Carl keeps scratching and rubbing, and I furrow my brow.

"What's up with your eyes?" I ask him.

He drops his hand, blinking away stars and wiping the wet. But he's not upset. The whites of his eyes are suddenly blood-shot and sore, and the skin around them is swollen slightly and red and raw from his rubbing. Upon seeing this, my eyes widen in worry for him, and immediately my hand lifts to gently dab the skin under his left eye with the cooler pad of my forefinger. _See? _I think to myself. _It's not so scary touching him._

"Tear gas," Carl answers me, smiling, seemingly undeterred by his irritated skin. "They dropped a cartridge in the train freight so that they could take Dad, Glenn, Daryl an' Bob."

I remember the bang and fizz. "I saw," I confess, dipping my head and feeling guilty even though I know it isn't my fault. "They took them into Terminus. Carol and I blew up the gas tank. The explosion broke the fence and that was what let all the walkers in."

Carl's brow rises, impressed by my destructive activities throughout the earlier day. "Whoa," he says in light amusement, and I try to smile, but I can't.

He rubs at his eyes again, and I pull his hands away from his face. "Don't scratch at them, you'll only make the reaction worse," I tell him gently, and I'm running my thumb across his fingers, and it isn't scary. "Does it hurt?"

"Nah," Carl shrugs, "just itches like a bi–" He doesn't finish his sentence. Because that's when he catches the warning glance from his father, quietening the teenager without needing words.

I smirk into my lap, inwardly enjoying seeing the teenager getting mildly reprimanded. I recognise my amusement from when I'd get Patrick into trouble when we were kids, and vice versa with him to me, though, the latter scenario was never as entertaining for me.

"Shut up, Oliver," Carl mutters, which only makes me grin wider.

I look at the scratch on Carl's cheek again. "What happened?" I ask, motioning to it. "And these..." I add, bobbing his cut up hands in mine, carefully as to not hurt them. They look recent, a day or so. But Carl's expression stiffens uncomfortably, and I watch him seems to recoil into the bonnet of the car, but he composes himself, holds my eye contact.

"_Those men," __he said __before__._** _**Does he mean-? **_**_No. No, no, no, no._

_"_I don't know if the fire's still burnin'," Rick interrupts my train of thought. His voice is such a contrast that I almost startle. Dread in my veins like venom. But I glance to what the man is looking at and spot the dark cloud of smoke rising from Terminus' graveyard. By the black tint, I know that it is still burning.

"It is," Carol confirms.

I don't look at her, feeling the lump in my throat and knowing that the woman is thinking of the small, innocent child who explained smoke shades to us the day before she died. _"__T__he smoke's black," __Mika said, and I wince as her gentle voice floats through my mind like carnivorous butterflies. Beautiful yet agonising__. "If it was white the fire wouldn't be burning anymore."_

"Yeah," Rick replies, pocketing a small rag he was wiping his hands with. "We needa go."

"Yeah but where?" Daryl asks.

"Somewhere far away from there." I don't even need to look at where Rick is pointing. The graveyard of Terminus. He steps over to the Dixon and Daryl squeezes Rick's arm, exchanging a silent agreement together. It reminds me of me and Pat. Our silent exchanges and subtle body language and gestures. The _You're my brother and I love you for it_'s that were never said aloud but didn't even need to be. That's what Rick and Daryl are like, I can see. Brothers.

Carl and I slide off the bonnet. I suddenly realise that I'm not supporting Judith, afraid that I'm dropping her, and I jolt as I try to catch her, but then I realise that I am not even holding her. "Oh. Man," I mumble incredulously at my own stupidity.

"What?" Carl questions, Judith actually in _his _hands.

I glance at him and shake my head, sighing, my cheeks heating up. "I, uh, I thought I was about to drop Judy. Been carrying her for this whole time. Habit I guess," I reply as I grab Lizzie's– I mean,_ my_ supply bag.

Carl lets out a short laugh, nudging me with his elbow and motioning us to walk with the others, "Glad to have you back, _m__an_," he tells me.

I gently stroke Judith's hair out of her forehead, lifting my gaze. "Me too," I reply quietly.

I take one last glance around us, exchanging friendly smiles with a few of my group as they begin to head off –exchanging more awkward glances with the guy with the mullet, Eugene, and the lady with the long tanned legs and short shorts and army hat, Rosita, but my gaze fixed on the run down, blue car that we were sat on.

"Just a sec," I say quietly to Carl and Michonne, quickly hopping over to the vehicle, unsure whether Tyreese had time to search it for anything useful before, so curiosity gets the better of me and I lean into the open window, balancing my hips on the metal door and lifting a leg to lean further in without falling.

Upon seeing nothing on the seats, I pop open the glove box, also finding nothing. **_Tyreese must've already searched it._** "Yeah," I agree with myself, snapping my mouth shut once I remind myself that I don't talk to myself aloud anymore. I am about to pull myself back out of the window and join the others, but something catches my eye in the cup holder below the dash board. Cigarettes. _"__Morley_?" I read the packaging, grabbing it, seeing a rather indignant photo of someone with an awful case of lung cancer on the cover. It reminds me of my dad. Not the lung cancer, by the way, but the _Morleys._

* * *

_I was born in North Dakota and lived there until I was about nine. My dad got a promotion and he needed to live nearer an airport to travel for his work. So he, Mom, me and Pa__t__ moved down to Lorton in Virginia. It was right outside of Washington D.C. for the airport, so living there just made things easier for him. At the beginning of our move, in the first few weeks, Patrick was always mad at Dad for moving us. Back in North Dakota he had his friends and he liked school. __H__e expected me to back him up on his dismayed opinion on moving. But the truth was I wanted to move. I had no friends and I hated my old school. Kids were mean. Even before they started ripping everyone's flesh off. It was never too bad. I never came home crying or with bruises –__that wasn't until at least sixth grade._ _  
_

_I remember back in North Dakota before we moved, Dad was a smoker, and __Morley __was the brand he smoked the most. Eventually, by the time I was about seven he managed to quit. But he always kept spare cigarette packets around the house, hidden in the strangest places. __I'd find them u__nder the bathroom sink, __in __the hanging flower pot__s__ by the front door, behind the clock in our kitchen, inside the vents. But he never smoked them. They were merely there to comfort him, which in turn, successfully kept him from going back to the nasty habit. He didn't know that Patrick knew about his stash. He didn't know that I knew. I'm not sure if Mom knew, and if she did she was kind enough not to tell him off for them.__  
_

_But one day, Patrick, the __ten__-year-old-terror-provider that he was, gave in to his temptation and stole a box. I remember the smug grin on his childhood face as he bust through our bedroom door (as we shared rooms back in North Dakota) and grabbed me from the floor while I was watching my Saturday morning cartoons. It was __SpongeBob SquarePants._

_"__Dude! Come with me!" Patrick almost bellowed his whisper as he gripped my arm and dragged me from __my top bunk__. __I hit my head. But I kept quiet and just rubbed it as he shoved me out of the room. __Dad was at work and Mom was making supper in the kitchen, but it didn't stop the idiot from crashing down the staircase like a rabid elephant.__  
_

_"__Hey!" I growled at him, and I remember trying to make my high pitched __eight-__year-old voice lower and more dominant. __It didn't work. I could talk to bats if I tried.__ "Pat! What __a__re you doing?"_ _But I was only Patrick's little brother, so of course, he didn't answer me. He enjoyed leaving me out of his mischievous plans for a moment while he pulled me out of the house._

_"Oliver, Pat?"  
_

_We both screeched to a halt at our mother's call, spinning around on our heels to lean back into the front door. "Yeah, Mom?" my brother called back innocently, and I finally caught a glimpse of what he was hiding behind his back. A pack of Dad's hidden Morley cigarettes. My eyes widened, but I brushed it off as Mom poked her head around the kitchen door, her long black hair swinging over her shoulders as she leant on the frame. Her hair was always smooth and shiny. Not like mine or Pat's. Hers was like marble._

_"Where are you going?" she asked. Her Italian accent naturally added gentle curiosity to her voice. I was about to step back into the house and admit defeat, but Patrick half slapped me in the stomach to get me to stay where I was, knocking the air from my lungs. I pretended it didn't hurt, silently cursing him in my head the worst insults my immature mind could think of. But I knew he was up to no good, and I knew he was including me. I wasn't about to refuse and miss such an opportunity._

_"To the park," he answered Mom, "I said I'd meet my friends."  
_

_Mom cocked an eyebrow again, unconvinced, "Oliver, as well?"  
_

_I saw Patrick's eye shift side to side as he tried to think of another lie, but he didn't have one, so he nodded. "Yup."_

_Mom's head fell backwards slightly, clearly not believing him. But I guessed that she trusted him because she motioned us to leave, smiling knowingly at us. Maybe she knew what we were up to. Maybe she trusted us enough not to do anything foolish. Or maybe she just had no idea at all._

_"Non dimenticare di indossare abiti caldi," she said, telling us to dress warmly. It was fall and the weather was starting to turn._

_"'Kay," Patrick smiled, and quickly grabbed our coats and hats before leaving the house again._

_"Ci vediamo dopo, Mamma," I told her. Mamma was what I called her when I was that age, and it would take a few more years for me to grow out of it, but at the time I wanted to make an effort to impress her and so speaking Italian seemed like a good idea, unlike Patrick.  
_

_We never smoked those Morley cigarettes.  
_

_Patrick forgot to steal a lighter. The idiot. But we never got the chance to take them back and hide them again because while we were crouched in the bushes of that cold wet park, some older kids heard us while we were arguing over who had to risk putting the damn cigs back. And once they laid eyes on the cigarettes, their was no way we could've run or talked our way out of it. So they mugged us. Well, I say mugged, but it was a lot less violent and a lot more pathetic. It took just one glare from the biggest teenage thug as he extended his hand to Patrick for him to cave and hand them over. So Patrick and I went home empty handed, with bruised prides and tears streaming down our faces. But he told me to suck it up before Mom saw us, and so I did. Mom or Dad never found out though, or maybe Dad did, but only didn't tell anyone in fear of getting caught by Mom for having them in the first place._

* * *

I know that I can be incredibly and infuriatingly nostalgic at times, especially regarding my parents and Mika and Lizzie and Patrick, but this time, I don't take the cigarettes for that reason. The truth is, I take them because I'm a teenager, and rebellion, even in the apocalypse, still seems about as inviting as a working theatre playing Lord of he Rings.

What can I say?  
I wanna try one.

Only one, though. Then I can finally put my childhood fantasy to bed. I'll give the rest to Daryl or something one day. I mean, it's not like lung cancer is my biggest problem around here anyway. I'm much more likely to starve to death or get torn apart by teeth. So I flip open the packet. It's still fairly full.

I've only been leaning into this car for a moment, so before I look suspicious I push myself out and stuff the cigarettes into my back pocket, pulling my shirt a little to cover the small outline of it. Carl lifts his brow when I glance at him. "Find anything useful?"

I smile, because his question has unintentionally offered me loophole, so I shake my head. "Nope, nothing useful," I answer truthfully as I go back over to him. **_Really?_** _Yeah. Cigarettes aren't useful... __**Well, **_**_I hope you're proud._** _O__h, shut up. I'll show him them later. Knowing him he'll only convince me to throw them away __anyway__. __**Good.**_**  
**

Carl touches my hand, his thumb pressing to my palm and pulling at my fingers. I look at it, hesitating for only a moment, but I think about how gentle he is being and how he is waiting for me to decide if I want to really hold it, giving me a choice, and I smile, closing my eyes tightly, and I hold his hand, squeezing it, and my sudden ecstatic mood threatens to shake the earth under us.

I know things are pretty shit right now. _Really_ shit. And I know why I'm so afraid of being so close to him sometimes. But I also know it's okay. That I don't have to. That I won't get forced to. I know we have a little food and water, and that we have each other, and so I can't help but feel hopeful.

Carl looks over my shoulder and I follow his gaze, seeing Rick stop at a Terminus sign we'd just passed on the track. He grabs some mud from the floor in a dirty rag and smears it over the sign, and I know that he is erasing the lie written on it. So, together, we cross the all too familiar train track and head into the tree line, keeping the dark tower of smoke behind us as we walk further away from Terminus, hoping to leave the name and place behind us forever.

_**No sanctuary.  
**__**Not there.**_

* * *

**Notes**

Hello! Sorry for the few days hiatus. I was cursed with minimal internet! But I'm back. Hope you enjoyed this little chapter :) More to come x

I realise that this chapter had no story progression. But it was more just to welcome back everyone. Lots LOTS more action and boy things to come :D hahaahaaha, pun unintended... or was it...? Teheheeheheheee... oh dear what am I doing with my life?

The next chapter will get on to the more important things that needs to be confronted. Oliver has a lot of things he needs to get off his chest... Also, they are both pretty badly broken since they last saw each other, and well, trauma doesn't just go away...

THANKS FOR THE READING AND SUPPORT! MEANS SO MUCH TO ME THAT IT HURTS!

Happy reading xx :_)_


	33. Strangers, Part 1: I Don't Wanna Forget

**Eli-XD-O **Aren't they adorable? God, I adore Judith, she is one of my favorite characters in the show!

**Prettyprincess45 **I'd never call you a weirdo :D yeah, there's something fun about writing filler chapters, because it's really a time to delve into your character and their relations with others. Thank you so much, you made me blush!

**mks 12 98 **Don't worry about the cigarettes, they will have a small coda in the story :) Btw, I don't approve the use of drugs, so I doubt Oliver will smoke them... or will he...? I guess you'll have to keep reading. That's not an order, don't actually read if you don't want to haha

* * *

Re-edited: 07/10/2015

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"How much do we have left?" I ask.

It's sunset. We've found a small area to set up camp and rest for the night. I'm sat cross legged on the ground with Carl behind me, back to back, Judith on my lap, feeling his movement as he sets up her formula. When he's finished I pass Judith back, smirking when she gargles at me in protest. "Few days... I think," Carl answers, placing the bottle to his sister's mouth to let her drink. But she fights him, and it's only when I flatten my palm against her feet that she settles and snuggles into him.

"We'll find something," I reassure him, sensing his worry.

He looks up at me. "Hope," is all he says, whispering it, and I can't tell if he is lacking in it, or if he is saying it because of his abundance of it. I don't even think he knows. He watches me. Everyone else goes about their business in setting themselves on the ground around the fire Rosita is preparing, resting. "What happened?" Carl asks me dubiously, his voice quiet and careful. "After?"

I blow my cheeks out, and my brow arches, then knits into a frown, frustrated, rendered unable to share no matter how much I feel like I need to. But how can I explain the unexplainable? How can I explain everything that has happened to me since those Claimers, since finding Carol and Tyreese and the girls? Since their deaths? Their murders?

"I... I can't," I get out, gulping back the bomb in my mouth as I am overpowered by the memories of it all, feeling it stab at the back of my throat as flashbacks roll through my memory. Dan, pinning me to the cold tile floor, sneering in my ear as he molested me. Mika dying in my arms as the beautiful light in her eyes flickered out like a light bulb. The gunshot from Carol's gun as she was forced to take Lizzie's life. The second man I murdered, slumping to the floor with my bullet between his eyes. Carl purses his lips as he watches my turmoil, a kind of empathy spreading over his expression. It scares me.

**Carl's POV**

They hurt him. I know they did. It's haunting him. Everything that's happened haunts me, too. I want Oliver to know that. I need him to know that he isn't alone in this.

"Those men... they–" I start, swallowing as I reconstruct my sentence again. "They'd been searching for us since Dad killed one of 'em in the suburb house. They found us... last night."

"No..." He breathes it desperately, shaking his head. My throat closes. Oliver's reaction only proves that he knew what those men were capable of – what I am terrified that they've done to him. I look away, feeding my sister, suddenly feeling like I can't tell him everything after all, just like when I told Oliver about Shane, and killing my Mom.

But Oliver can't let my words go, and as he asks his next question he is so afraid of my answer that his body and hands begin to tremor. "Carl, did... did they–?"

I shake my head before he finishes. "No. They're dead."

Oliver almost keels over with relief, closing his eyes and letting out a long sigh through his nose as he braces his hands flat on the dirt. But it's not me that I need him to be worried about. I need to know what they did to him. But I need him to know that he can tell me anything. So I bottle my trauma and force the evens of last night out of my throat.

"Five of 'em, I think. Held a gun to Dad and Michonne. One man, Joe, said stuff about you. That you escaped an' that your trail went cold... but... I knew you were still alive. It took a while, but I knew." In the pause, I would smile at him, and he would smile back, but neither of us can muster it. "Daryl was with 'em. He didn't know how bad they were. Was jus' gonna stay until he found somewhere better. When he saw us he tried to help. He tried to talk 'em down, but, they turned on him... A guy grabbed me. Dragged me out of the truck I was sleepin' in an' tried to..." I stop when Oliver winces, knowing that he doesn't need to hear what that monster tried to do to me. "But he didn't." I glance at Dad as he talks to Tara a few hundred yards away, making sure that he doesn't over hear this. Not because he wouldn't want Oliver to know, just so that he doesn't have to be reminded about it. "Things got bad. Real bad. Daryl was getting beat. Michonne couldn't do anythin'... an' I was – um, Dad got pinned by Joe... But... he bit him – tore his throat out." I watch Oliver almost shudder at my description, imagining the horror that I had to witness, and I keep talking. . . "Michonne and Daryl took out the other three. Then it was jus' the guy who grabbed me."

"Did he have um, uh–" Oliver clears his throat. "A-a beard, and, was he big?"

I nod, waiting for Oliver to elaborate, but he doesn't, so I keep talking with his nod to do so. "Dad got him. Gutted him... let him come back... then killed him again."

Oliver purses his lips, "And... are you okay?"

I stare at him, wondering how on earth he is still concerned about me when I can see that so much worse has happened to him. "Are you?"

I know that our answers will be the same. . .

"No."

Oliver's eyes shift between mine, and he leans forward, rests his head on me, rolling it over to press his cheek to my shoulder, careful not to lean on Judith as she continues to drink her formula in my arms.

"But I will be," he goes on. "_We_ will be."

I balance Judith's bottle in the hand I am using to hold her and use my now free hand to gently stroke the hair out of Oliver's forehead, hearing him sigh, feeling his warm breath blow over my collar bones.

"I love you," I whisper to him, only, it sounds more like, "You smell like walker guts."

"Like air," Oliver replies, only, it comes out as, "Screw you, man."

I play with a strand of his fringe, and he takes my hand, gently running his thumb over my wrist before pulling it to his mouth and planting a warm kiss on my cut up knuckle. His brow furrows, figuring out on his own how I must have gotten them.

Oliver isn't ready to tell me what happened. I've seen how close he, Carol and Tyreese are, almost as if they have silent conversations with each other. Telepathic communication. A deep, unbreakable bond formed over the journey they took while they were travelling together. There's more to his story than what happened with those Claimers, and there's more to their story than just the long walk here. I realise that. And I respect that whatever it was they aren't ready to share yet. Maybe they never will. But I hope at least one day Oliver feels safe enough to tell me. I owe him that.

**Oliver's POV**

I'm drifting off despite the fact that the woods are still lit by the just set sun, it's orange and purple light looming over the sky. I make myself sit up, knowing that I'll end up squashing Judith if I'm not careful, and I'm sort of just sat with my hands in my lap and my feet pressed together at the soles, blinking and blinking and counting sheep jump over walker pits.

"Tired?"

I snap out of it, looking at the boy in front of me, seeing the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly with his smile. "What?"

"Rest, Oliver."

I nod, moving to lie down. I don't even care that I haven't put a blanket down, I just need to sleep. But just as I go to move, flattening my palms on the soil to lower myself, of course, it seems that the universe has other plans for me.

"Oliver?"

The quiet call of Rick a few yards away grabs my attention as he leans on a tree trunk to look at me. "Y-yeah?"

He beckons me over with his head, and I glance back at Carl, expecting him to accompany me, for some reason under the impression that Rick wants him as well. But the teenager raises his brow and chucks his head for me to go. "Didn't ask for me?"

"He might have?"

Carl shakes his head. "Nope."

I look back to Rick. He beckons me over again. _Me? He wants to talk to me alone? __**Yes, Oliver...**_ _Uhh... __**Well go! **_I stand up quickly, suddenly not feeling tired at all anymore as I head over to the man, making an effort not to glance back at Carl and awkwardly stuffing my hands in my pockets as I go. But then remembering my manners and taking them out again, opening and closing them by my sides from not knowing what else to do with them.

"Everything okay?" I ask him as I stand in front of him, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach.

"Yeah. Is it alright if I talk to you a minute?" Rick asks, shifting his weight on his hips a little.

I nod, about to ask why. But he turns, and so I keep quiet as he leads the away through the woods a little way away from the others. But I can take a guess of what he wants to talk about anyway, and it makes my stomach churn. He stops a few hundred yards away from camp, still in sight and faint ear shot but far enough away to talk in hushed tones without being overheard. Rick turns to me, taking a moment to scan our surroundings with his hands on his hips. When he finally looks me in the eyes, I hold my breath.

"I'm guessing you know why I've asked you out here?"

"Yessir," I answer a little too quickly, faltering, "I-I think so."

"Good." Rick nods, breaking our eye contact when his head dips for a moment, before looking back to me and crinkling the corners of his eyes like Carl does so often. "Good," he repeats. I try not to show how awkward I feel, but am sure he can tell anyway. "So, you and Carl're boyfriend's?"

I nod slowly, "Yes, sir."

Rick's hand lifts and rubs his chin, looking around and doing something I want to call a nod. He doesn't seem angry, or disappointed, or incredulous, he's just looking at me. Looking like he's looking for something in particular that he hasn't figured out yet. "How long?" he asks then, drawing out the question in his Southern drawl and raspy voice.

"Not long," I answer. "Uh, well, this is kinda only the third day." I wonder if I should smile, or laugh, but my whole body is too tense to do so. Instead I just kind of shrug awkwardly and force myself to keep looking at him, ignoring my nervous and palpitating heart. "Technically."

"Does he treat you well?"

I can't help the look of utter shock on my expression, confused that he'd ask it that way around rather than asking if _I'm_ treating _Carl_ well, but I answer him regardless. "Yes, he does," I say truthfully, not able to stop the content smile that tugs at my lips and cheeks. "He's a good guy," I add, then, "good man," only just truly appreciating that term for Carl. I always call him _man,_ but I'd never really meant it. Not like now.

"That's good to hear," Rick smiles proudly, letting out a short, modest chuckle at my words. "And you're treating him well?"

"I hope so," I answer truthfully. "As far as I know."

"You're a good man. You both are. I'm proud of you."

I draw my lips into my mouth, pressing down on them as I try to subdue my smile, and I get that feeling I get just before I'm about to cry. "Thank you, sir." A pause. "Thank you, Rick."

I watch something suddenly bleed across his expression – guilt. Intense guilt. It is so overwhelming for him that it forces his brow to arch.

"Erm. M-Mr. Grimes?"

Rick draws in a sharp breath, shaking his head a fraction, dropping my gaze and taking a moment to recompose himself. "I'm sorry," he apologises. _Holy shit. _"I'm so sorry, Oliver." _Holy_ shit. "For everything." _Holy __shit._ "I shoulda never let it all happen... I'm so sorry. I shoulda done something. I can never forgive myself an' I don't expect you to either. But I need you to know how sorry I am. And how grateful I am," he grips my shoulder, forcing his expression to relax. "You saved my family, my boy, my baby. I can never repay you for that."

I stare at him, stunned, like I'd just been tazed. "I-I... I've never blamed you. I did what I had to do," I get out, choosing one thing to tell him out of the hundred others reeling through my mind, and before he can respond I choose another thing to say. "And Carol, Ty and I? We did what we had to do to keep Judy safe. We did what we had to to save you all. You'd do the same for us. . . That's what family's for."

Rick nods, taking a deep breath and holding it for a second. "Thank you, Oliver," he says sincerely, "for... everything."

"Everything works out the way it was suppose to."

My gaze drops to the leafy ground, unsure if using Mika's motto does her justice. But I try not to ponder over her at the moment, knowing that I will only depress myself, so I glance back up at Rick. He purses his lips. "Oliver," he says, "are you okay...?"

_No – _"Yes, sir."

I think of his work in the police, how he must have needed to read people to tell if they were lying of hiding something, and I feel transparent, but I do well to keep myself relaxed, until finally he nods, "Okay, Oliver," and I can't tell if he believes me. But then his expression tenses again and he drops his gaze. I recognise his expression as the same one Carl uses when he doesn't know whether or not to ask something. I know I shouldn't find it funny, but I can't help the faint smirk on my face as I watch Rick's struggle. But then I suddenly realise what is troubling him so much –_oh no– _and my smile drops faster than his did.

_He's not.  
__**Oh God. He is.  
**__No, no, no._

"I'm not sure how close you an' Carl are, right now, yet, uh... but, um." My stomach drops. "I mean, I've spoken to Carl 'bout this back at the Prison. But, uh, not... well, not this kinda stuff. I jus'... he's still fourteen, an' you're only jus' fifteen... W-well, I'll talk to him, too, eventually, but, uh, I jus' wanna know that you both aren't rushin' into things. You're kids, an' I know it's easy to get carried away sometimes, especially now but, uh–"

"We're not," I blurt out, forcing myself not to cringe. "No, we're not, uh, doing... _that stuff.._." I struggle to hold his eye contact, but I'm telling the truth, so it's not entirely impossible not to keep looking at him, holding the cerulean eyes that my boyfriend has inherited.

"You sure?"

_Pretty sure..._

"I mean 'cause I'd rather you talked... whether it'd be to me, or Carol, or Michonne... you know? If, uh, you both needed to talk."

"Yeah," I get out without choking on my words.

He doesn't say anything for a moment, and I use every ounce of my strength not to move a muscle in fear that I will burst out laughing or gasping or coughing or –I don't know– something equally as ridiculous that I won't be able to control. But that's when Carol walks over to us.

"Oliver? Can you gi-" She stops just as she notices Rick, almost startling. "Oh, sorry. Thought you were alone. Am I interruptin' anythin'?"

I look at Rick, because quite frankly I am more than happy for this to be the end of our conversation. He glances at me, nodding, seemingly thinking the same. He places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it gently, giving me a subtle private nod. "Yes," is all he says, and I know that he isn't only answering Carol. But giving me his acceptance, and I grin, unable to relax my expression as my heart swells ten times over, threatening to explode from my rib cage. He nods again, before turning to exchange a glance with Carol and then walking away back to camp. Carol steps over to me.

"What's up?" I ask her.

She doesn't answer me right away, instead she follows my previous gaze to where Rick had just left. "Did he talk to you?" she asks, not needing to ask about what. I nod, and she smiles. "Ty an' I were gonna get some more water for everyone – can you give us a hand?"

I nod, "Oh, uh, did you give Rick his watch yet?"

"Not yet." Her expression softens with her tone. "I'll talk to him, when it's quieter. I gotta... Giving him his watch back'll be like an ice breaker."

I nod, pursing my lips into a reassuring smile. "It'll be okay," I tell her, waiting a moment before jerking my hand in the direction back to camp, "let's get to filling the waters?"

* * *

We're washing the bottles in the stream we passed just before stopping. Carol and I use the opportunity to wash the last of the dried walker guts off of anywhere that we'd missed before. When we are clean, we move a little upstream to fill the bottles up with the undisturbed water on the surface.

"Talked to Rick," Tyreese says a moment later. I glance to my right at him. He's looking at Carol on his other side, "some o' them know what you did... at the Prison."

I look back to my task, listening to them but staying quiet in the tense atmosphere that Tyreese's sensitive subject has created.

"Daryl, Maggie. They accept it," he says. "You wouldn't be here if they didn't... I'll talk to the rest, tell 'em to accept it, too."

I look up from the filling water bottle without moving my head, exchanging a glance with Carol. She purses her lips at me and looks back at the bottle she's filling. "You don't have to do that," she says to him, like I knew she would.

_She still wants to leave, doesn't she? __**I think so.**__Well, I won't let her. I'm not giving up on her after everything we have been through. No chance._

"No," Tyreese insists gently, "they do... They just do." He trails. I grab another bottle and fill it, focussing on the trickling of the stream. "We don't need to tell'm about the girls." I tense up, just the mention of Mika and Lizzie aloud sending those painful pangs of guilt through my gut, causing my eyes to close on themselves. I have to shake my head to clear it. "I don't want to," he adds, and I open my eyes and stare down at the full bottle in the water, taking a moment before lifting it, re-capping it and then getting another.

"Why?" Carol asks.

"I jus' need to forget," Tyreese answers.

I think of what Carl told me the day Patrick died. _"__You need the pain to remember what you still have," _he told me._ "__You can't let yourself forget how bad it feels. You gotta hold onto it. You need the pain to survive. Without the pain, you forget, and it'll only hit you harder the next time... The pain you're feeling right now, it only makes you stronger."_

Carol collects all of her full water bottles, standing, and I join her, sharing the eight or so bottles between us. "You got it?"

"Yeah." A pause, and we're far enough away that Tyreese can't hear us. "Carol?"

"Yeah."

"I. . . I don't want to forget."

She stares at me. "Oliver..."

"I just... I want it to stop hurting," I whisper, and Carol reaches out to me, but she stops when I flinch. I ignore it, pursing my lips apologetically because sometimes I can't help the flinching. "But, I don't wanna forget what happened. I don't wanna forget _them._"

Slowly, and with my lean of consent, Carol gently pulls me to her, wrapping her free arm around my middle. "I know, Oliver. You don't have to forget. It's good that you don't want to. But it is what it is. You get through it–you fight it. That's how it works now." I keep hold of her, tightening my grip. "Everything works out the way it's suppose to."

* * *

When we get back a few minutes later, just as the sun begins to turn the sky a dimming blue colour. We place the bottles with Glenn and Maggie, and they proceed to boil the water. I bid them and most everyone else goodnight before finally heading over to Carl, finding him led on his stomach with his forehead rested on his forearms, facing down into the dirt with his sheriffs' hat placed just above him.

"Comfy?"

"Hm?" he mumbles as he rolls his head to look at me, smiling as I sit beside him. It's kind of amazing–the unnatural positions he manages to get himself in when he is tired. "Oh. Yeah, actually. Better than the Office Blocks."

"I highly doubt that," I counteract in jest, splaying myself on the earth beside him in the same position that he's in. I can smell the dirt, feel it against my chin. Then I roll onto my back, finding it a lot more comfortable like that instead. "Where's Judy?"

Carl points over his shoulder to his father. I spot him cradling the baby in his arms, wrapped warmly in her blankets and now-dry travel sack. I look back to Carl, smiling as I rest my cheek on the back of my arm. I watch as his hand moves from his side. It seems to subconsciously search for me; slithering like a snake over the soil and decomposing leaves until it finds its target, and his cool skin touches my fingers, gently interlacing his through mine, holding it. I don't move, trying to ignore the small and irritating course of adrenaline that suddenly runs through me. Though despite the fear, I am enjoying his skin on mine, really. I just can't seem to do anything about it yet. His eyes flicker open, and I blink at him, feeling my confidence return a little as I drift into the deep electric blue that glows through the dimming woods.

"What did he say earlier?" Carl whispers. I can hear the other's quietly chatting to themselves or sleeping.

I roll over to face him properly, letting him keep hold of my hand as I use my other to rest my face on. "Your dad?" Carl nods. "He wanted to know about us. If we were treating each other right – looking out for each other, you know?" I miss out the part about Rick apologising to me. I'm about to tell Carl about his father thinking we were sleeping together, but I decide against it, sure that Rick'll talk to his son about that in his own time, but for now. . . I am not going there.

"And, he's okay with it? With us?"

I almost scream, "YES I KNOW ISN'T IT FUCKING AMAZING OH MY GOD I'M SO FUCKING HAPPY I THINK I'M GOING TO EXPLODE!" but it leaves me as, "Yup."

Carl is grinning. "Cool."

I lean forward. I want to kiss him. I know I do, and I watch as the almost shining blueness recedes behind Carl's pupils, and he leans forward, too, touching out foreheads. My eyes close, and I can feel the heat from his skin as he moves closer to me, millimetres apart, the graze of his lips against mine. My breath hitches, wanting so much to do this but feeling that horrible adrenaline again. But I bury it, wanting this too much, wanting this like I'm afraid of it, like what I imagine sky diving is like, or jumping off a cliff into water, and so, I let our lips touch, press, and for the first time in too long, we kiss.

I know that after everything that Dan did to me it has changed how comfortable I feel with this kind of intimacy, and I try not to think about how scared I am as I feel Carl nestle his lips into mine. But I am scared. I'm scared and it's infuriating.

I break our kiss, sitting up, fast, breathing too fast, my heart kicking around in my chest too hard, and I'm shaking, feeling angry, at myself, and it builds and builds and builds until I'm scowling into my knees. "I'm sorry," I gasp, begging myself not to cry. "I-I'm sorry."

I can feel Carl watching me, and when he sits up he doesn't touch me. I'm aware that that man, Abraham the Sargent looking guy with shoulders that of an elephant and redder hair than Penelope's once was, has glanced at us from his resting place beside Rosita, but he looks away when the rest of my group doesn't take notice.

"It's okay," Carl whispers gently. "You're okay."

I'm nodding. Not meaning it but nodding. When I reach behind me, Carl lets me take his hand, and I pull, carefully and slowly, and he shuffles forward, until his chest is against my spine, his chin on my shoulder, and I'm tense and holding my breath, until I do breathe, syncing with his breathing, focussing, easing up, and when he blinks I can feel his eye lashes flutter against my ear.

"You don't have to be afraid of me, Oliver."

I keep my eyes closed, and I shake my head. "I'm not," I whisper quietly, tensing my jaw as I try to relax my eyebrows, and I lift my hand, stroking it across his jawline, gently and blindly exploring his facial features with my fingers. "I'm not," I repeat, and it's true, really it is. Because I'm not afraid of Carl. I'm afraid of what has happened. I'm afraid of it haunting me, like it is. I'm afraid of it haunting him, too. I'm afraid of losing him. I don't think I could bare it. Not again. He's keeping my broken pieces together. Simply being, here, alive, safe... and it terrifies me that I have so little control over how long it will stay like this.

"Oliver?"

I nod, still keeping my eyes closed as I run my thumb over his cheek, trying my best to stop my hands from shaking.

"Remember when I told you about getting shot?"

I nod again.

"The deer? Not having control over myself during my seizure?"

"Yeah," I say truthfully.

"There was something else," he tells me, and I manage to pay impossibly more attention to him. "I remember waking up, the first time. Hershel was removing the bullet shards. It hurt, so bad. I could feel it. I was screaming. Shane was holding me down. Mom and Dad were trying to calm me, and they were shouting, crying, scaring me, but all I could think about was Hershel... pulling the shards out. The pain was so bad that I blacked out again."

Carl's words are like a blow to the chest, and I make a quiet and accidental mewing noise. "Please, stop," I get out, frowning against him and unable to hear this. It's unbearable, the thought of him in so much agony.

I open my eyes as Carl shifts, facing me, looking a little guilty for making me so uncomfortable, doubting where he originally intended to take his conversation. But he regains his surety. "I thought I'd never feel pain like that again," he whispers, looking at me without really looking at me, "but it was worse when you were gone. But, the pain wasn't in one place like with the bullet. The pain was everywhere, and it was slow–got worse with every day. It... _numbed_ me." He pauses, in truth looking pretty awkward, and I'm staring at him. In any other circumstance I'd mock him, I'm sure of it, but all I'm doing is staring, absorbing every syllable. He smiles, nervous, embarrassed. "I'm not really sure where I'm going with this..."

Then I smile. If I weren't so stunned I'm pretty sure I'd leap on him like he'd just tried to steal my food. "It's okay."

"I guess I just want you to know that I just, _really _needed you. And that you needed me, too. But even though that didn't happen that it's okay now. You're here. I'm here." He's doing it, somehow; reading my anxieties like a book made for him. "I'm here for you."

There's this lump in my throat. Goosebumps covering my skin. My chest imploding on itself. But I'm not sad. I'm not even afraid anymore. Not right now. Right now I'm overjoyed, filled with so much love that I am sure I will erupt with it. Half expecting it to all just spill out of me and drown the both of us, more of it than I can ever show him. So much that it's supernatural, superhuman. Well, that's what it feels like. Like I might lose all control over myself, but in a good way.

But I guess that's kinda what falling in love is… falling. Like, uncontrollable and unstoppable. But also it's somehow the opposite of falling, too. Like flying. I guess I don't even understand the half of it, really. But I think I know enough to know that love's pretty limitless. But totally fragile, too. Like, it can be lost so easily. Before the Turn love would be lost by stupid things because people didn't really appreciated it. Like, it'd be an affair or abuse or distrust or a disagreement, something as dumb or irrelevant as that. But now, since the dead rose from their graves, love can be lost by so much worse. A bullet. A cut. A bite. A scratch. All gone in moments and there's nothing we can do about it and _that_? That it is _absolutely_ terrifying.

Then I'm kissing him.

I'm not sure for how long. I'm just thinking about his mouth and his hair and his eyelids and his eyelashes and his jaw and his collarbones. I'm thinking about how honest his is and how much he means to me and how freaking glad I am to be here, kissing him, tangling my fingers into his hair, hidden amongst our group by the darkness. _**You hope.**_ That insecurity brings me to pull away, aware of the hurricane barrelling around in my chest and brain. But to my relief nobody seems to have noticed.

Carl seems to be experiencing the same hormonal conflict, and he's smiling, and it's only then that I realise I am, too. "What?" I whisper.

"You're not shaking anymore."

* * *

**Notes**

Hope you enjoyed this chapter. :)

Quite a lot of dialogue, but a lot of this stuff just needed to get out in the open. Lots of action and funny crap (I hope) in the next chapter :)

Preview: They'll be meeting someone new next chapter. And Oliver becomes aware of how much fun messing with Carl can be sometimes :)

Don't forget to leave your thoughts of this chappy in the comments x I'll upload next Saturday if I get a few :)

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_


	34. Strangers, Part 2: The Stranger

**Eli-XD-O **yeah, it was nice to just get everything off of Oliver's chest for him. Thanks!

**I Love Fanfics **EEEP! Thank you! You're so totally awesome! All the love is so encouraging and motivating!

**inazumahunter **Yeah, Rick would be stupid not to accept Oliver and Carl. For one, Carl's his son. And two, Oliver saved his entire family, so... :D I'm so glad you were nervous, too. I mean, I'm not glad I made you nervous, I am glad that my writing was the means _to_ make you nervous... uh, you know what I mean XD THANKS! ADORE YA! Oh, and Oliver's sarcasm will be back, he's just gotta start feeling happier, which might be hard... :D

**mks 12 98 **AW Thank you! Yeah, that whole soppy thing was gonna be put in a lot later into the story. Probably when they lost their virginity together or something. I dunno. But I just put it in and it fitted okay so I left it like that.

* * *

Re-edited: 08/10/2015

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

A chest. Carl's chest. That's what I wake up against. My hands are curled up against his stomach between us, because he's warm, which is kind of really nice because the rest of the world is cold and damp and hard. Against my nose, in the dirty collar of his long sleeve, and I lift my hand, thumbing the snagged hole in the fabric that I remember wasn't nearly this big back at the suburb house. We really need to find new clothes soon. Yeah, I'm pretty sure that mine are going to mould into my skin if I wear them for too much longer. _**Oh, man... that's disgusting.**_

Carl brushes away my extremity, thinking it must be a leaf or insect or something. I mean, it isn't exactly like he's used to waking up with me like this. To be fair, we've only slept like this a few times before. So I drop my hand again, accepting defeat and sitting up, rubbing the sleep and dirt from my eyes.

I grab my beanie when I realise it'd fallen off, pull it back on my head, shiver. I take a look around and rub my arms, seeing everyone else still asleep or only just waking up, apart from Abraham, who's rummaging around in his supply bag with a frown on his thick, orange brow – an expression that I don't think I've seen him relax since I met him.

I'm looking at Carl, noticing that the scabbing on his cheek has improved a little, and I lean over to gently tap his arm, "Carl," I whisper, yawning. "Wake up, man."

He doesn't. Just grumbles something that I don't understand. I think of when I tried to wake him up that day in the Office Blocks, when he mumbled something about string beans and told me to piss off. At the time, I'd let him go back to sleep. But I also remember when he smacked me on the forehead with my Butterfly Lion book to wake me once.

"Carl, get up."

"No."

"Get up."

"Bug off."

Either he thinks I'll let that slide for a second time in my life, or he _wants_ me to blow in his ear.

* * *

We're walking in quiet, moving through the woods in our group of fifteen. Rosita, Eugene, Abraham, Tara, Maggie, Glenn, Michonne, Carol, Tyreese, Sasha, Bob, Judith, Rick, Carl and me. _**Wait... are you sure? **__Yeah... fifteen of us.__** Were missing someone, though.**_ Just as I am about to glance around and count heads, we all hear rustling coming from a little way to our left. Instinctively, I drop the supply bag, adrenaline surging through my body as I take aim, everyone else, too.

But it's Daryl.  
The missing head.

_I forget Daryl?  
__I __forgot__ Daryl.  
__I forgot __Daryl!_

"I surrender," he muses, hands up in submission.

I sigh and relax my shoulders, exchanging an incredulous head shake with Carl at how jumpy we all are. But that's good. We need to stay on our toes, especially out here. We eye up the impressive row of squirrels tied together and hanging from Daryl's arm. _Real_ food.

We keep moving, grabbing our stuff, hearing the quiet muttering of conversation between Rick and Daryl. Daryl thinks someone's been watching us – following us. Which albeit is worrying. But I don't want to put much more thought towards it because I just want to think about the very prospect of simply being back in our group again as a reality, so, yeah, stalkers and murderers can go fuck themselves for just a little while longer.

Rick breaks away from Daryl, whistles to us all tells us to hurry, "Keep close," he urges.

"Alright," I ask Carl quietly after a while, deciding I've had enough of listening to Bob and Sasha kissing as they walk, _"One more," _he'll mutter, and they'll kiss, and he'll say, _"One more," _again. Anyway, "eating anything you wished for, anywhere in the world, right now. What and where would it be?"

Carl cock's an eyebrow, letting his head roll back to think. "Uh. The Grand Canyon," Carl answers, "umm... eating some canned corn."

"Why canned?" I ask. "Why not fresh corn on the cob?"

"Oh," Carl mutter, like he'd forgotten the fresh kind even excised. _I bet he did. It's pretty easy to forget fresh vegetables out here._ "Then yeah, corn on the cob instead," he corrects himself. "You?"

"Easy," I say. "In my bedroom back in Virginia stuffing my face with a big can of chocolate pudding, and I'd eat all one-hundred-and-twelve ounces to myself."

"I knew you were gonna say that."

"Why The Grand Canyon?"

"Not really sure," he says, shrugging. "When I was a baby Mom and Dad tried to take a trip there."

"Tried?"

"I was sick on our journey there and we never made it. And, I kinda promised Sophia we'd go one day, too. But, you know... that never happened," he trails off slightly into his thoughts, but he ploughs through: "It'd jus' be cool to actually do it, one day, you know? I'm jus' getting kinda tired of empty promises."

A pause.

"One day," I say, leaving the statement to float in the air, neither making a promise or condemning the idea.

We will go, one day.  
If we ever have the chance, one day.  
If the circumstances ever go in our favour, one day.  
Hopefully.

One day.

"HELP...! HELP, ANYBODY! HELP...! HELP!"

I startle, my hand instantly flying to my machete, wrapping my fingers around the red handle. I look around, all of us do. Only hearing the desperate screams in the distance.

"Dad, c'mon," Carl says, taking out his gun and glancing to his father, desperate when Rick doesn't immediately compile. "C'mon!" The man tenses his mouth, reluctant to put his family in any more danger than we are in already. Carl is fumbling, shifting on the spot, unable to ignore the cries for help. "Come on!"

Rick finally relents, and Carl spins on his heel, running to the screaming. I'm right behind him, telling him so when he reaches out for the shortest second to check, letting go once he knows that I am. Everyone follows, rushing, and we crash through the trees, swatting away branches and bushes until we get to the ciaos.

Two walkers have cornered a man. He's atop of a large boulder, kicking out at the walker grabbing at his ankle, yanking and growling, mere moments away from taking a chunk out of his flesh.

**BANG!**

At Carl's bullet, the walker hits the ground, hard, and Carol takes out the second. I can hear the third lurker, adrenaline surging through me and aiding my reflexes as I turn to where it's coming from. It emerges – it's wiry beard jolting as it snaps its jaw for Carol. But I lunge for it, driving my machete through it's skull with a wet _THWACK,_ before letting the walker drop to the earth. Carol pulls me away, and I stand with her, nodding and earning a nod back, pursing their lips with a mixture of relief and concern.

"Clear. Keep watch," Rick commands.

I take a moment to watch the man as he cowers on top of the rock. He's dressed in a black suit with one of those white neck ties that Fathers of the Church wear. I'm not very religious, obviously, so I don't know what they're called but I can see that he is, or is at least is supposed to be, dressed for that role. His skin is dark, his head bald and clean shaven, eyes wide, eyebrows arched, wincing and shaking as he sees the carnage around him.

"C'mon down," Rick encourages, motioning the stranger down from his perch.

Shakily, the man climbs down. He's looking around at everyone, but when his eyes catch mine for a moment I avert my gaze. I'd forgotten how shy I was before all of this. I haven't actually spoken to Tara, Abraham, Rosita or Eugene since I was briefly introduced to them yesterday, but I know everyone else like family and so any shyness around them flittered away months ago.

"Are y'okay?" Rick asks him.

The stranger sways, tries to answer, but he holds a finger up and suddenly doubles over, yacking onto the ground. Carl turns away, glancing at me as he stifles his groan. I purse my lips, watching the man continue to retch up his food, quite frankly impressed, I wasn't aware that there's someone in the world with a weaker stomach than me.

The man turns to us again, arching his brow, sniffs and tries to compose himself. "Sorry," he tries not to gag, remembering Rick's previous question. "Yes. Thank you. I'm Gabriel."

"D'you have any weapons on you?"

Gabriel sort of retches a laugh, and I see Carl curve his lips into a friendly smile at the man, encouraging him, and I decide in that moment that I'll just rely on him to do the socialising from now. _**Or you can just grow a pair.**_

"Do I look like I would have any weapons?" Gabriel answers when he realises Rick wasn't kidding.

"We don't give too short'n curlies what it _looks_ like," Abraham interjects.

"I have no weapons of any kind," Gabriel says. "The word of God is the only protection I need."

"Sure didn't look like it," Daryl says gruffly.

Gabriel smiles at him, the fear still visible in his expression. "I called for help," he says, looking around to all of us again and smiling with his eyebrows arched. I look away when his eyes scan over mine. "Help came." There is a long, awkward pause. "Do you, uh..." Gabriel begins timidly, looking to Rick, "have any food? Whatever, uh, I had left has just hit the ground."

Looking away from the vomit by his shoes, I remember the pecans that are still in my pocket –Carl had put them there after I woke him. I had a few, but I didn't finish my share. It's strange, I usually eat like a horse, but my appetite for pecans just hasn't been the same since the Grove. Regardless, I take the last two I have out of my pocket, pushing them into Carl's open palm as it hangs loosely beside him. His fingers close around mine, at first not realising what I'm doing and mistakenly trying to hold my hand.

"N-no – pecans," I whisper, and he feels the hard nut surfaces, takes them from me. I see him smirk, apparently only just remembering my social flaw, too, and I resist the urge to mutter for him to bite me, rolling my eyes at him instead.

"We've got some pecans," Carl says, reaching forward to give them over.

"Thank you," he says gratefully, taking them, hands trembling. He glances over at the rest of us, his eyes lingering on Judith. "That's a beautiful child." None of us say anything, and Gabriel's words hang in the air for a moment, and when he realises that he's not getting a reply, he tries again. "Do you have a camp?"

"No," Rick answers, narrowing his eyes. "Do you?"

"A church."

_Of course._

"Hold your hands above your head," Rick commands, his tone that of a man who doesn't want his time wasted. Gabriel does as he's told, complying, and Rick frisks him. "How many walkers have you killed?"

"Uh, n–not any, actually," Gabriel answers, jolting slightly from Ricks roughness.

"Turn around," the former cop grumbles, yanking Gabriel to stand with his back to us, continuing his pat down. "How many people've you killed?"

"None," Gabriel answers, his brow arching, and he's allowed to face his interrogator again.

Rick glares back. "Why?"

"Because the Lord abhors violence."

Rick stares at the man, his patience dwindling, and he steps closer, growling, "What've you done?" Gabriel furrows his brow, silently pleading his innocence. But not even I believe him on that. "We've all done something."

"I'm a Sinner," Gabriel answers without answering. "I sin almost every day. But those sins? I confess them to God. Not strangers."

"You said you had a church," Michonne states, and Gabriel turns to her, giving her a shaky nod.

"Lead the way, Father," Daryl says.

* * *

We've been following him for a while now, hope wherever his church is that it's not inside there woods, craving to feel a hard surface under my hiking boots again.

"Hey," Rick addressed Father Gabriel. "Earlier, were you watchin' us?"

"I keep to myself," he answers. "Nower days, people are just as dangerous as the dead, don't you think?"

"No."

"People're worse," Daryl adds.

I exchange a glance with Carl, both of us silently agreeing.

"Well I wasn't watching you," Gabriel defends himself. "I haven't been beyond the stream near my church more than a few times since it all started – that was the furthest I've gone before today."

_No one is that fortunate. __**Especially not any more.**_

"Or maybe I'm lying," Gabriel says then. "Maybe I'm lying about everything and there's no church _at all._ Maybe I'm leading you into a trap so I can _steal_ all your _squirrels._"

I, along with every one else, glare at him. I'm fairly sure that he is joking, and maybe before all of this I would have laughed along with him, but people just don't joke about that sort of stuff anymore, and Gabriel needs to learn that, and fast. _**Especially if he wants to keep his pulse. **_I hardly notice that we're all circling around him now, glaring at his words as he finally pipes the fuck down, staring at us with his brow arching in worry.

"Members of my flock," he says weakly, "had, uh, often told me that my sense of humour leaves much to be desired."

"Yeah, it does," Daryl mutters.

Gabriel averts his eyes, quickly turns and continues walking again, though, not before clumsily walking into a tree branch and failing to dodge it. _Strange, _is the first word I think of. _Strange. __**Stranger. **_I look at Carl, thinking, _He's clumsy like you, too, _to him, and it seems that even right now he's got a sense of humour, because I see the small smirk fighting its way across his lips despite how much he is trying to resist it. But he glances at me through his hair and hat, giving me a, _I'm not that clumsy, Oliver,_ look, and I look away before I blush. Because _holy shit we talk like Carol and I talk, too, and Judith, and Ty! __**No, he probably just thinks you look like a goof-ball. **_

Then there is cement under my feet. Once upon a time before the Turn we would've been able to actually see the cement and road under it, but it's now coated in a thick layer of dirt and decay. But I'm not complaining, I am just happy that I can walk on solid ground again, out of those woods, away from those dreaded tracks.

The Church is ahead, just like Gabriel said. Carl takes Judith from Tyreese. The man replacing her with his rifle, and Carl comes back over to me with his sleeping sister, her chubby cheeks squashed against her brother's shoulder. We go through the open lot, reading a sign that says:

"_ST. SARAH'S CHURCH  
__EPISCOPAL"_

There's a wooden fence surrounding the property, the tree line behind it, and a small graveyard just to the Churches' right, a white church bus poking its bonnet around the back of building, too. The Church is small and cosy looking, well, as cosy as can be I guess, and it's situated right in the very centre of the lot. It kind of reminds me of a place in a comic I read, and by Carl's expression I can tell that he's thinking the same thing.

"Hold up," Rick says, following Gabriel up the steps and signalling us to stay where we are. "Can we take a look around first?" A short pause. "We jus' wanna hold onto our _squirrels._"

* * *

We're inside, Rick, Michonne, Daryl, Carol, Glenn and I. I wasn't expecting him to ask me to come as well, but I guess that I am of a little more use to the group than I first thought. So I keep my Glock aimed wherever my eyes go, walking quietly around the inside of the building, past rows and rows of benches, those cushions that people would use to kneel on to pray on the seats, bibles dotted around, too. Surprisingly, the place is clean, no dust or blood or rot in sight. It smells musky and the air is thick though – evidence that Gabriel's had to live here alone for over a year, but he seems to have done well to air the place out a little.

I go to a door on the right side of the room, Carol follows me, keeping her rifle trained at the wooden surface, ready to pull the trigger if someone or something leaps out on us. So I close my fist around door knob, gripping my Glock in the other hand, then twist, pushing it open. Nothing. We step inside. It looks kind of like an office, or a _sacristy,_ I think – the place in churches where holy objects and special clothes for ceremonies are kept. _**And you say you don't know anything about religion. **__I don't think it is a Sacristy anyway though, it looks too used and run down._

Carol goes to the cluttered desk, scoping over the odd objects on it, religious ornaments and decorations, an old telephone. She flips through a notebook. I view an art piece on the wall, a depiction of the last supper. Because even I know _that_ story. Daryl comes into the room, looking around and nosing at some of the fancy garbs, examining the art work when I step across the room to join Carol. I notice the tension in her expression, and she isn't fast enough to close the notebook in front of her before I read in big, bold, over-written writing across the filled page:

**"THOU SHALT NOT KILL."**

My breath shrivels in my throat, but I remain nonchalant, acting like my gut isn't aching as she flips through. Until I have to leave, itching all over, like just being here is burning me. It isn't so bad when I step out into the chapel, aware that Carol is watching me from the sacristy still but not looking back at her for both of our sakes.

Rick motions me over as he heads towards the back of the chapel, and I hurry over, gripping my Glock as we both examine the small open area ahead that's separated by a railing. There's a table in the middle with a few unlit candles and brass ornaments on it, but what catches our attention is the stacks of opened cans of food neatly ordered against the wall. Rick crouches to look past the table, seeing more empty cans layered against the wall under the coloured glass window. _**This is weird.**__ I know.__** There's something not adding up. Something corrupt about all of this.**_ _**I don't think Gabriel's telling us the full story.**__ Is anybody anymore? I mean, like Rick said, we've all done something._ _**Yeah, I guess. **__So it doesn't necessarily make him a bad guy?_ _**Not yet anyway. But I'm still not taking any chances...**_

Rick turns around and whistles to the others, and they all emerge from the rooms they were searching in, nothing to say, so we head back outside just as Sasha, Bob, Abraham and Rosita meet us from wherever they were searching outside.

"I spent months here without stepping out the front door, if you found someone inside," Father Gabriel begins as we all walk past him to our friends, "well, it would've been surprising."

Gabriel's humour is wearing. Fast.

"Thanks for this," Carl says gratefully, gently rocking Judith in his arms. Gabriel smiles at the teenager, and I purse my lips into something like a smile when he looks at me, trying to mimic Carl's unfamiliar friendliness, and quite frankly damn well surprised by it. _Jesus, when has Carl Grimes been so optimistic?! __**I don't know. Guess **__**two weeks can change a person. You know that, though, huh?**_ _Yeah, but unlike me his change seems to have been for the better. _Rick glances at his son, just as taken aback by his behaviour as I am, and Carl recoils ever so slightly, taking the hint.

"We found a short bus out back," Abraham tells Rick. "It don't run, but I bet we could fix that in less than a day or two. And Father here says he doesn't want it. Looks like we found ourselves some transport." Rick doesn't respond, keeping his back to the man and his attention on Judith, thinking about what Abraham is getting at, and what he has been discreetly getting at ever since I met him. "You understand what's at stake here, right?"

"Yes I do," Rick confirms.

"What're they talking about?" I whisper to Carl. But Carl shakes his head, silently telling me to let it go for now.

"Now that we can take a breath," Michonne begins.

"We take a breath," Abraham interrupts impatiently. "We slow down, shit inevitable goes down."

"We need supplies," Michonne argues, using that familiar passive aggressiveness, "no matter what we do next."

"That's right," Rick seconds her dryly. "Water. Food. Ammunition." He walks up the steps and heads into the building, ending his conversation with Abraham. I follow with Carl and Michonne, trying not to look at the Sargent as his cheeks grow red from his frustration.

"Short bus ain't goin' no where," Daryl adds to Abraham's irritation. "I'll bring you back some baked beans."

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Dad takes Judith, and Oliver and I take a seat on one of the benches, relaxing our legs, feeling the room sway from the lactic acid in our muscles. It's so disorientating to me that I lean forward to rest my head in my hands. "I am _so_ tired."

Oliver's palm rubs gentle, mocking circles into his back, and he mumbles, "Don't think preying'll help, man."

"Gabriel seems okay," I say, ignoring that, leaning up again to look at him. He's a mess. There's no other way to explain him. Mud and sweat and grime coated into his skin, dark likes of it on his neck and around his eyes and forehead and mouth, and beneath his beanie, his hair practically defies the laws of gravity, matting and flopping messily brownly over his neck and forehead in every direction. It makes me smile. It makes me want to lean over and tuck my forehead against his shoulder.

"Hopefully," he says, neither agreeing or disagreeing with me.

"We're gonna go take a look around the local neighbourhood," Glenn says, getting his gear ready with Maggie and Tara, "we'll stay nearby. There's a gun store around somewhere. We'll find it."

Dad nods, "Be back before sun down."

They leave. Abraham and Rosita already went out to start on repairing the bus. Eugene went with them, and he'd spoken for the first time since Oliver'd met him. "I'm not sure why," Oliver said, when he left, "but I was kind of expecting him to have a Southern accent." and I said, "Maybe it's the mullet."

I decide that now's as good a time as any to explain the tension between Dad and Abraham to him. "They wanna go to Washington," I start. "I guess they're not willing to _take a breath_ until they do."

"Hm." He's rubbing his eyes, yawning, and I'm pretty sure that he'd be more than happy to _take a breath_ for a while. "I jus' don't want it to cause any problems if your dad keeps avoiding it."

"Abraham's jus' gonna have to make do with staying here for a few days," I say. "We can't always be on the run."

"Why does he wanna go to Washington so much anyway? Seems pretty important, but you're all kind of... putting it off, you know? And–and what's with Eugene? He's hardly said a thing."

I smirk, only just realising that Oliver hasn't been properly filled in about this yet, and quite frankly I'm pretty amused by his befuddlement, but then I straighten my face and answer: "It's not that we aren't taking him seriously. It's just, it's all he them ever talk about. It's kinda turned into a broken record, but we respect that they're on a mission. Michonne'n Dad're jus' a little reluctant right now. But, I believe them. I heard what Eugene said in the train freight, and I think they can really save the world."

Like I knew they would, Oliver's eyes widen.

"Yeah." I'm nodding. "That's the cool part," I continue. "That's what they're so desperate to do in Washington. Eugene's a scientist. He knows the cure for the walkers."

Oliver's staring, his mind bursting at such a possibility. Splitting right in two from it.

"D.C?" is the first thing he says. "Or, Washington _Washington_?"

"D.C." I answer, "why?"

Oliver shrugs, but I don't believe him. "I was just freaking out for a sec there. Washington's, like, a lot further away than D.C." I know that he'd just made that concern up on the spot, but before I get to pressing, he waves his hands in front of my face. "That's not important though. You gotta tell me about Eugene. How would he cure it, I mean?"

Dilemma. My ego deflates at the realisation that I don't really know the answer to that. "Erm. I'm not sure. He explained, kinda... uh, but I didn't really understand. Somethin' about flippin' a switch? I think." Oliver nods, dipping his head. I know that he is thinking that it all sounds too good to be true. "What do you think?" I ask anyway.

Oliver looks at me. "I think that if it is true then we should go with them. But if it's not? Then I'm gonna be pretty fucked off."

I chuckle, glad that he's at least _entertaining_ the idea of a cure. "You're not allowed to cuss in church, Oliver," I whisper, half heartedly scolding him. "It's a _sin._"

Oliver rolls his eyes. I lift my hand to the back of his neck, pulling, gently pressing our foreheads, and I'm grinning. Grinning grinning grinning. Also secretly fantasising about the idea_ of_ kissing in church. But I go against it seeing as it isn't only us in here right now.

"How'd you survive here for so long?" I pull back at Dad's voice, almost startling from it, like I'd forgotten that it wasn't only Oliver and I in here. Because as an unspoken rule mushy affection around parents (or anyone really), is out of the question–bar one exception which may or may not have been that one time we found each other outside Terminus after thinking we were dead and all. So as my father glances over at us, subtly taking in our recently parted discreet display of affection, I start fidgeting and scratching under my hat. But Dad doesn't seem to think twice, instead he looks back to Gabriel without giving much more thought to us. "Where did your supplies come from?"

My sister's eyes lock onto mine and she holds out her hand for me, silently asking my for attention. So I go over to Dad and retrieve the baby.

"Luck," Father Gabriel answers. "Our Annual Canned Food Drive. Things fell apart right after we finished it. It's just me."

Judith wriggles, and I mumble her name, and it's only when I sit beside Oliver and the little girl practically throws herself at him that I realise she'd been asking for his attention all along. I let him take her, ignoring the petty brew of green in my gut.

"The food lasted a long time," Gabriel goes on. "And then I started scavenging. I've cleaned out every place nearby. . . except for one."

"What kept you from it?" Dad asks, rifle in hand.

"It's overrun."

"How many?"

"A dozen or so," Gabriel answers, "maybe more."

"We can handle a dozen," Dad says confidently.

"Bob an' I'll go with you," Sasha volunteers as she walks over to him. "Tyreese should stay here. Help keep Judith safe."

"That'd be okay?" Dad asks Tyreese.

"Sure," he confirms solemnly. "You ever need me to watch 'er – need anything for her, I'm right here."

"I'm grateful for it," my father thanks as he walks up to him, "an' everything else." Tyreese nods.

"I'll draw you a map," Gabriel says, walking to the end of our bench and grabbing a piece of scrap paper left on the seat.

"You don't need to," Dad stops him, "you're comin' with us."

Gabriel holds his gaze, that fearful smile working its way across his mouth. "I'm not gonna be of any help. I mean, you saw me. I'm no good around those things."

_Nice try._

"You're comin' with us."

* * *

**Notes**

I do not mean to offend anyone by some of the insensitive things that are said in this chapter on the subject of religion. I am just sticking to what their characters would think, because lets face it, in such a dismal world, it must be fairly easy to lose one's faith, huh? :)

Also, I wanted to show how socially awkward Oliver really is. And I thought the pecan thing was cute. But don't worry, Oliver will 'grow a pair' haha XD

Don't forget to leave your thoughts of this chappy in the reviews x :)

PS. PS. PS! I am thinking of adding a new story. Basically based off of this story showing random points in Oliver's past. From before The Outbreak to where he is now :D

**Stale M&amp;M's: The Stories of Oliver's Past**

The first chapter is up and I would love it if you could check it out in my profile. It's a short chapter from the Prison-Era, when Patrick was still alive and it's got a few budding cute crush moments between Oliver and Carl.

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_


	35. Strangers, Part 3: Making Out in Church

**westerlo4 **I know. I don't understand how I have written all of this and more in less than 5 months! Crazy. Thanks!

**inazumahunter **Yeah, a whole 30 chapters ago Oliver got hit by _Butterfly Lion. _Talk about holding a grudge! hha, thanks for your amazing support!

**The Box **Thank you! It really means a lot that you are taking the time to read this, especially since you don't watch the show that much! LOVE YOU! You're amazing! And yes, thanks for the suggestion. I got a D in English overall *blushes with shame* so I am only writing this with what I have picked up by reading LOTS of books. So thanks for that, I do tend to over describe things. XX thank you!

**mks 12 98 **I know, I am terrible *evil laugh* Making out in church, grr, bad me... but... let's just say... Oliver and Carl find a loop hole...

* * *

Re-edited: 09/10/2015

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Gabriel was... _reluctant._ To say the least. But torn between his fear for the outside and his fear for Mr Grimes? Well, it's pretty easy to guess which he found more intimidating.

"Can I have her?"

"Yeah," Carl answers me, handing his sister over. After so long on the road to bond and care for the almost-toddling-terror, I'm kind of getting withdrawal symptoms. She reaches for my beanie hat, rambling in her baby talk, and I kiss her forehead, standing up and walking her around the chapel, showing her the coloured glass windows and all the pictures in them.

"Oliver," I hear Rick call to me a few minutes later. He's stood with Carl in the centre isle, beckons me over with his chin. So I head over, pulling at my beanie with my free hand. He takes my shoulder, motioning Carl and I to sit on the bench beside him. "Listen," he tells us quietly, kneeling in front of both of us in the isle. I put Judith in the basket Daryl'd found in the second office. Then once she's comfortable, I focus on Rick. "I don't trust this guy." He's talking about Gabriel, who currently is somewhere collecting his things for the run.

I'd nodded in agreement, but Carl shifts his gaze between me and his father, furrowing his brow, "Why?"

"Why do you trust 'im?" Rick asks his son.

Carl glances at me, only for a second before answering, "Everybody can't be bad."

One side of Rick's lip flickers the start of a smile, but he pulls it back, determined to get to the point. "Well." He draws in a breath. "I don't trust this guy. That's why I'm bringin' 'im with me, but he could have friends." _**Friends. Like those claimers?**__Shh. _"So I need you to stay alert. Both of you," Rick says. "Help Tyreese protect Judith, okay?" Carl and I nod. "Yeah," he spends a few seconds each looking each of us in the eye one at a time. "Now, I need you to _hear,_ what I'm about to say."

"Okay."

"Yes, sir."

Rick's forehead grows about a hundred wrinkles at once. . .

"You.  
Are.  
Not.  
Safe."

_. . . Well shit, Rick._

"No matter how many people're around. Or how clear the area looks. No matter what anyone says. No matter what you think." His hand lifts, gesturing between our heads. "You are _not safe. _It only takes one second. One second, and it's over. Never let your guard down. _Never._ I want you _both_ to _promise_ me."

"Promise," Carl and I whisper in unison.

"Okay."

"Dad," Carl stops him from walking away, standing and leaning on the back of my bench. Rick turns and walks back over, and Carl sighs. "You're right. We are strong. All of us are." He hesitates. _Where's he going with this? _I furrow my brow, giving Judith my hand when she begins to whimper. "But, we're strong enough that we can still help people. And we can handle ourselves if things go wrong, and, we're strong enough that we don't have to be afraid, an' we don't have to hide."

I inhale, and I have to hold it a sec, feeling overwhelmed, all of a sudden, comforted. Really, _really _comforted.

"Well he's hiding something," Rick says.

"I'll stay safe, Dad," Carl says after a moment. Then, with a subtle flick of his hand, he adds a reassuring, "we both will," to the end of his promise, and Rick nods, lifting his hand to the crook of Carl's neck and squeezing gently, before nodding to me, then going over to the others.

Judith grips my hand in both of hers, trying to pick at my thumbnail. Carl's still watching his father, troubled, so I slip my free hand across his as it grips the back of my bench. He looks at me, moves one side of his mouth into what's suppose to be a smile, and my thumb runs over the back of his scratches. Under my palm, he relaxes, then moves around the bench to sit beside me.

"D'you think I'm the most naive idiot in the world?" as he asks, his mouth and nose scrunching up insecurely. I shake my head, but then I stop and do something that could be kind of a nod, but then I shake my head again. "I'm getting mixed signals."

"Not naive," I tell him, "just, hopeful and optimistic. It's kinda refreshing really." This clearly doesn't come as any type of reassuring to him. "Do you know who you remind me of?" I ask him, and Carl frowns, shakes his head. "Hershel."

Carl blinks, staring at me, then looking at the bench in front, trying not to look uncomfortable. "Erm, uh, thanks? I guess."

I purse my lips, realising that comparing my boyfriend to an old man he considered like a grandfather and had the horror of watching get decapitated might not be a good strategy. "I mean you're good, Carl," I charge through, thinking hard about what I'm trying to get at here. "You've seen and gone through –like– a tonne of crap since all of this started, but you still have hope, you know? You've come back from it. Just like you were so afraid of not being able to do once. But, you've done it, you know. And that's _so _cool. Hershel saw it, too. And, it's like you've sort of taken on his faith. Maybe not exactly but you still believe in people. You still believe in finding the silver lining. You're kinda like our own moral compass." I smile at him, pleasantly surprised by myself for thinking of all that on the spot to be honest. "You're a good man, Carl," I tell him truthfully. "Just like Hershel was."

Carl's cheeks blush, modest, and he leans forward to rest his forehead on mine, and I smile, quickly planting a kiss on his cheek a little closer to his lips than I originally meant it to be.

"Dork," he says, sitting back.

"You're welcome," I whisper to him.

* * *

**Carl's POV**

It took a few minutes for them to convince Father Gabriel out of his office, but finally, he, Dad, Bob, Sasha and Michonne leave for the Food Bank. Abraham, Rosita and Eugene are still outside working on fixing the bus. Carol and Daryl are out getting more water. Tyreese, Oliver, Judith and I are in the Church.

"I'm gonna take a look around outside," I tell Tyreese.

He nods, holding his arms out and taking Judith. "Stay around the Church where the others can see you. Don't leave the property, alright?"

"We won't." Oliver's already standing to accompany me, and he walks past. "Let's go," he chirps, hooking my wrist with his fingers, pulling.

It's hotter out here than it was before. Stifling. My clothes stick to my skin, and my hair clings to my forehead, and I'm wiping my upper lip and cheek on my shoulder before we even get to the bottom of the steps. I'd use my hand, but it's busy holding Oliver's. We stick to the shade of the building. I'm not sure if we're going anywhere in particular, like, maybe go sit on the fence in the shade or on the steps around back, but when we hear the others as they tend to the bus around the back, Oliver stops, back steps a few feet, then leans against the wall.

He's looking at the floor, his jaw clenching, but he stops when I walk over to him, leaning back on the wall beside him in silence. I scan the tree line, keeping alert like Dad told me to and Oliver does the same.

"Okay," I say after a long few minutes. "I'm not sure if I'm over-thinking this but something seems like it's bugging you."

Oliver pushes himself from the wall. "Yeah," he says, "um... Wait. I gotta go."

"Go where?"

His eyes shift, and his thumb flings over his shoulder. "You know, like, _go._"

"Oh," I say awkwardly. "Right. Sorry."

He goes behind a tree opposite me, at one point peeking around it at me, and I can hear the _pat-pat-pat _of his pee against the tree trunk, and he says, "I don't think my pee should be this colour, man."

"What colour is it?" I ask like it's a normal question, squinting, not meaning to sound so concerned.

"Um..." he disappears to check. "Kind of like, dark. Like, really _really _dark."

"I think you're just dehydrated," I say, knowing from experience, trying not to find it funny when he looks at me again, just his head and right shoulder visible, nodding seriously, his eyebrows climbing up in concentration while he finishes up and comes back over.

Around the edge of the building there are odd, overgrown shrubs scattered and growing against the wall. Oliver takes a seat by one, crossing his legs and leaning against the wood-panel wall in the shade. I sit cross legged beside him, sandwiched between him and another shrub to my left, awkwardly pushing the scratchy branches out of the way when they jab against my neck. Eventually I relent, compromising by just moving a little closer to Oliver.

His hand links with mine again –being grossed about by the fact that he'd just gone to the bathroom isn't something any one of us have the luxury to be concerned about anymore anyway. I lean into him, relaxing into his lanky teenage form, the side of my chest moulding to the subtle bend of his arm.

He's oddly quiet, jaw clenching, still. Oliver's never been one for much conversation when there doesn't need to be. I used to think it was rude, and I'd do it back, ignore him and refuse to start conversations. It kind of ended up with us spending a lot of time with each other without talking at all, and it took both of us a while to actually realise we liked it about each other. But right now, he seems distant. _Detached. _But I don't press again. Getting Oliver to share a secret or something close to his heart has never been an easy task, and so I and anyone close to him has learnt it's best to leave him be until he's ready to share. So for a long time we sit like this, silently scanning the area and hearing the quiet yet irritated mumbling coming from Abraham, Rosita and Eugene, bickering and debating as they tend to the vehicle. I look to the road to our right, seeing the leaf littered road that my father took with the others earlier for the food bank.

"Lizzie killed Mika."

I keep staring at the road. Out my peripheral vision, Oliver stares in vehemence down at a weed in front of him, and slowly, I turn my head and look at him. I don't say anything though, speechless, half convinced that I didn't hear him right. Oliver's whole body visibly tenses. He swallows, almost winces. It takes a while, but finally he keeps talking.

"I'm." He has to start over. "I'm going to tell you everything, from the start." Oliver looks past me at the wall, his brow arching, then furrowing. "But I-I need to you stay quiet. I need you to just listen." He stops talking to the wall, his eyes snapping to me so fast I feel myself flinch. "Carl? C – can you do that, for me?"

My heart is kicking around in my chest, but I nod, meaning it.

"The day I lost you," he begins, his voice level and clear. "Your dad and I, we hid. But a guy saw me, Joe. He didn't see Rick, just me, so I went with him. I thought he'd kill me. But he didn't. He took me downstairs with another guy. I-I thought they'd just – I-I don't know." He shakes his head. "Another man – the same man that grabbed you. He tried to. . . claim, me. Forced me into the utility room and."

He stops, and dread eats me whole, unable to bear hearing this. But I stay silent, keeping my promise.

"He didn't," Oliver says. "He almost did. But he didn't. The guy who your dad killed, he Turned. Attacked the others. They started screaming, and I was in there, with that guy, and, he _wouldn't_ stop." I'm wincing, close to tears. "I thought it was Rick. I thought it was him, screaming. The guy, he... He was gonna. I – I was so... _scared. _So useless. But Joe came in, made him get off me and go help. _'I'm not done yet...' _That's what he said. Like I was some rag doll. Anyway, they left to sort the walker out. I got out through the back door. Ran."

All of the pieces fall into place in my mind – who Lou was, how Oliver escaped, why he wanted to know which one grabbed me, and the most terrifying thing that I was scared of. Because Oliver wasn't ripped of his innocence.

"Carl?" He strokes my hand in his, coaxing my eyes open again and when I oblige he talks. . . "When I was running, I-I got to the train tracks, and I kept running. I ran until I couldn't anymore. Carol, Ty and Judy, they were there, found me. But, it wasn't just them."

His brow arches for a moment, but he forces himself to settle and holds my eye contact.

"Mika and Lizzie. They got out, too. Escaped the attack with Ty and Judy. Carol found them the next day. Found me a few days after that. Took care of me. And we kept walking along the tracks to Terminus. I thought you were all dead. I thought you and Michonne would've gone back to those Claimers and." He can't finish, but he doesn't need to, and for the first time I truly take in the horrible scenario that could so easily've been a reality if Oliver hadn't done what he did. "We found a grove. Stayed there for a while. Three or four days. Mika and Lizzie." His brow arches, and he has to suddenly wipe his eyes. "I loved them. _So_ much." His voice cracks. "And I didn't notice. . . Lizzie–there was something. I-I don't know, but, she was doing things. Feeding the walkers and playing with them and zoning out of conversations. I-I didn't notice. I didn't _want to_ notice. She was messed up." He curses under his breath, burying his face in his hands. "I shouldv'e done something."

Oliver stops, scrunching his eyes shut, and I stay quiet like he told me to, and after a long time he opens his eyes again and looks at me, charging himself, like I'm an outlet, all to willing to give him that strength.

"Carol and Ty were out hunting," Oliver tells me, swallowing. "Lizzie and Mika were outside with Judith. I went to find Carol and Ty because I found a shoebox full of mice under mine and the girl's bed. Mika told me Lizzie was catching them for the walkers, and she didn't want me to tell. But I had to... So I went to find Carol and Ty, left the girls in the Grove with Judy. I found them. Carol and Ty. But they were talking about something I didn't want to interrupt... so I went back." He shakes his head. "I should've _–__fuck–_ I could've saved her. I should've saved them _both._"

He's so angry. I've never seen him angry. Truly angry. What hurts worse is that I know he's only at himself.

"Lizzie stabbed her." He's talking into his knees now, hugging them. "And when Mika died in my arms – when I couldn't save her, Lizzie told me it was _'okay'_ – that she,_'didn't hurt her brain'_. She wanted Mika to come back. She didn't understand. Carol. . . sh-she had to make sure Mika didn't come back, and then, she had to." But he can't finish, so he changes his sentence. "We couldn't have Lizzie and Judith under the same roof."

I stare down at the floor, training my eyes at the same sprouting weed that Oliver is glaring at. I never particularly had any significant relationship with Lizzie or Mika. We just never had much in common. After I caught them talking to the walkers at the fences it only made me more distant from the two siblings. It was strange and worrying, I knew that, but I never would've expected it to turn out like this. Things like that just don't happen. But I guess we were all wrong on that one.

I don't have words to console Oliver and I know that if I did they wouldn't make any difference, so I lift my hand to his nape, stroking my thumb over his skin there and gently pulling him closer, and he rests his forehead on mine, a gesture that I've noticed we've been doing a lot lately.

Oliver holds my gaze, his eyes looking like blurry, brown, alien orbs this close. Like they're some kind of strange and perfect screw up played by God, like He had just decided to leave them like that because He liked the way His accident turned out. That's when Oliver folds into me, pushing himself closer, pressing his head to the crook of my neck, finalising my view of the golden splinters in his gaze. I respond by closing my fingers into his hair line, gripping the ends of his wavy hair gently and carefully, stroking my thumb against his skin and feeling the end of my thumbnail graze over the edge of his beanie with each stroke, and for a long time we're just holding and hugging and existing.

"I shot a man, at Terminus," Oliver whispers. "I had to."

My face scrunches into his neck, kissing him there, holding my lips to his skin. It's damp and warm and gritty, and I scrunch my face against him more, wishing he doesn't have to hurt like this anymore. Wishing none of us do.

"Mika. She'd always tell me that _'everything turns out the way it's supposed to'_," he says, his hands on my shoulder blades. "I just, can't decide if it's turned out the right way or not."

I pull away to look at him, frowning. "How d'you mean?"

Oliver purses his lips, holding my gaze with a kind of carefulness that I've been seeing in his expression lately. "Well, they died. And we left and got to Terminus because we didn't want to stay... If they had lived, we'd still be at the Grove now, and, all of you would've died. . . It would have always been between you and the girls. And I hate that. . . I hate how it's turned out. But I know that I couldn't – _wouldn't_ change it even if I had the chance. If I had to choose whether to save the girls or save you. And that makes me a terrible person for just thinking like that. . . It makes me a monster."

"It doesn't, Oliver," I whisper, snapping it. "It makes you human."

"I–"

"Oliver, it's done," I interrupt, and my hand comes up to his jaw, my thumb running across his chin, but I drop it after a moment. "You _can't_ change any of it. It wasn't up to you. It happened. You have to move on now. You have to live. . . before the guilt eats you whole."

Oliver closes his eyes, the inner corners wrinkling. "You sound like Carol now, too."

I smile, both incredulous and sympathetic. Oliver strokes my cheek with his thumb, then pulls away and stands up. "Come on, man. Let's look around a little more."

He's sad, but I take the hint and stand, too, and I take his hand, and we walk around the Church. When we come to the corner that Abraham, Rosita and Eugene are still repairing the bus together at, Oliver stops, pokes his head around the corner to make sure they didn't hear or see us. Satisfied, he steps back, turning, holding my eye contact for a long moment. I watch in awe as the golden flecks catch the sunlight, like fire-power, receding behind his pupils. I wonder if he's doing it on purpose, with those coffee eyes of his, jittering all over the place, hypnotising me.

"When I heard Carol and Ty talking that day," he says, and I remember that I need to listen to him, nodding, "while they were hunting. They said that everyone who we've lost, everyone who's dead, everyone haunting us, might really just be teaching us. Reminding us so that we can live with what we have to do." I nod, swallow, frowning slightly in confusion as to where he's going with this. "And you were right, earlier, I mean," he continues. Coy? "We don't need to be afraid anymore. So I'm not gonna be. It won't work all the time, because. . . I know that I can't just forget everything that happened, but I'm gonna try to learn from it. For you, and, for our family."

I stare at him, for a while, feeling my heart swell against my ribcage. Our eyes dart in a frenzy of blue and gold and brown and black, and there's this _thing. _An energy of sorts. For lack of a better word to describe it. It whirs between us in a wild, jagged, unpredictability. Like a wild deer caught in a small room, desperate to come out.

I can feel the anticipation. The _crazy _anticipation. It's so strong it makes me light headed, dizzy. I think I'm nodding. But I can't be sure. My body feels static, like it is buzzing and moving, but not moving, or maybe moving. No, I must've been nodding, because Oliver tips forward, closing his eyes and pressing his lips to mine like we both have wanted for so long. I still startle, gasping. But then I'm kiss him back, gently and sweetly, pulling him closer, the brilliant sensation of him being this close sending shivers through every inch of me. Because he's cupping my face, holding me to him, our lips greeting and idling and burying. I've missed this. This feeling. His hands. His chest. His kiss. His _real _kiss. With no fear or worry or hesitation behind it, just excitement and affection and. . .

"Holy shit."

I startle at his curse, pulling back. "What?"

"Nothing." He looks exhausted. Like he's just ran a marathon. And he's laughing. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

I'm laughing, too. "I think we should get back to making out."

Oliver's nodding, nodding and nodding and nodding. "Me, too."

So that's what we do.

Pulsating.  
Electrifying.  
Whirring.

I'm not fully aware when Oliver starts walking into me, pushing me backwards into the wooden wall of the Church. The only reason I do come to its recognition is when my back hits the wall, and I gasp into his mouth, and Oliver seems to only just realise, too, because he pulls away quickly.

"Sorry."

I should reply and tell him I'm fine.

But that energy.  
That brilliant, whirring, electrifying energy.

It engulfs me.

So I don't talk. Instead I pull him back into me, hooking his belt hoops on the left side of his jeans and lacing my other hand through his hair. I knock his hat off, scrambling to catch it, but even when I do it falls from my hands, because he's kissing me, and my back presses into the wall, kissing him, too, only, this time a lot less gently and sweetly, feeling his heart near thump right out of his ribcage, taken away by that wild, deer, jaggedness as it continues to whir around us in crazy unpredictability.

I don't know how long we go on for. I don't know how long it takes for me to simply slip through his fingers like water, because I've melted, and I'm soaking into the ground at his feet,_gone gone gone._ However long later, when it all has become so intense that the only thing I am aware of is just the two of us, and when we're so tangled up together that for a moment I forget who's limbs and lips and souls are who's, we break apart for air, both of us panting madly with swollen lips and reddened faces.

But what sticks out the most, to me at least, is Oliver's eyes. Now just two, black, shiny pits and I know that mine have done the same. In the Georgian weather, along with our heated activities, both Oliver and I've gained quite a sweat, among other anatomical reactions that we are both aware of but do well not to pay outward attention to, and I watch as small, delicate beads of sweat trickle down his jaw, along his neck to his collar bones, making them sparkle against the sun in a sort of really, really photogenic type of way that makes my knees weak and my mind spin with thoughts that I am in no position to explain at the moment. I look up again, at his black holes, and we stare at each other.

"I'm not... particularly religious or... anything," I begin breathlessly, our bodies pressed and our arms entwined, "but I'm pretty sure it's frowned upon to make out in church."

Oliver would laugh, but before he gets to it we're kissing again. When he pulls away again, his left eyebrow is cocked, and he whispers into my ear. "Technically we're not actually _in _church though."

Another few minutes of kissing. I'm not sure it it was intentional, but his teeth get involved at one point, and it makes me rise up on tip-toes. Regardless, when we break apart again, I say, "Oh. Right," all sarcastic and incredulous and only a little overwhelmed. "Of course. How could I've missed that?"

It's his back against the wall now, kissing kissing kissing, pressing and tangling our bodies together as intimately as we possibly can out in the open, filling up on as much of that brilliant electricity from each other as we can. When he pulls away, his eyes are closed, and my hands and eyes roam over every part of his face that are available to me. His jawline–under-bitten and perfect, lips–parted, eyes and eyelids–relaxed and fragile, cheeks and neck and collarbones–sweating and grimy and mind-numbing. It's so overwhelming that I'm sighing. _Swooning _might be a better word. Then he opens his eyes, shifting the coffee between my blue, exploring my facial features like I was his, only, with his eyes rather than his hands, too.

Then I frown, and he snaps out of his thoughts, a short moment of shock and confusion swatting between us.

"Carl?"

Then I grin. Widely. Madly. It's Oliver's turn to swoon then.

"W-what?" he asks, struggling to focus.

"Oliver," I laugh, "you've hit puberty."

The look on his face is priceless. "Pretty sure that happened a while ago – _whuoh! _Uh. Carl?" I'd taken his chin in my palm, pushed to get a better look at the side of his face, stroking the side of his lip with my thumb. But he pulls his head out of my grasp and frowns at me. "C-Carl. What is it?"

"You're growing facial hair," I explain, kind of suddenly totally ecstatic. "You've got a little moustache, and a beard. Kind of. Almost. Barely."

"What?" His brow cocks, laughing, eagerly lifting a hand to his face to feel. "Huh?" Curious. "Huh." Then disappointed. "Huh!" _Then _he finds the soft bristles of budding hair sprouting over his chin and upper lip. "Holy–"

"Peach fuzz," I finish.

"Someone's jealous," he scoffs playfully. Though, I'm not lying.

Even so I scowl at him, "I'm not jealous," I defend, though, I am lying this time, a little.

"You don't need to be anyway," Oliver tells me then, sounding smug and proud, and it's my turn to be surprised, and quicker than he did my hands shoots up to my jaw, over my upper lip, going as far to search for the facial hair as pinching my skin for it. But obviously, like his, my hair is hardly worth mentioning, and so after a moment I admit defeat and purse his lips into an awkward smile. I'm about to break the ice by telling him that it suits him despite it only being visible when we are this close to each other. But it's then that I look at the wall behind him.

"What is it?"

I almost startle at his voice, my eyes darting to him, "Th-there's..." I lose my voice when I look back to the wall, motioning my head, so Oliver turns around.

"Shit."

There's writing, carved on the wall.

_YOU'LL BURN FOR THIS_

Nothing you'd expect to read on the side of a church. Or anywhere for that matter. It shakes me. Sends chills right through me. Makes the hairs all over my body stand to attention. Oliver's, too.

"M-maybe – maybe the Church takes making out a little more seriously than I thought," Oliver tries to joke. Even faced away from me, Oliver can feel me glaring into the back of his skull, because he turns, grimacing. "That's not funny. Sorry."

He turns back again when I accept his apology, and he reaches forward to run his thumb over the writing. But my arms tense up, stopping him, and for a moment I have to remind myself that he won't get cursed if he touches the carving.

"It's been scratched in or something," he whispers softly, feeling the jagged splinters snag over his skin.

"Whatever it was," I say, grabbing his beanie from where I'd dropped it, "the message isn't meant for us."

We frown at the markings.

**Oliver's POV**

"Father Gabriel?"

"It's gotta be," Carl replies quietly, stepping back, his eyes trained on the mutilated wall. I side step to another part of the building around the corner, realising too late that I've just exposed mine and Carl's whereabouts when I come into view of the bus. Eugene spots me first, closest to me by the engine while Abraham and Rosita talk on the other end of the bus. But the strange thing is that Eugene startles when he notices me, snapping himself to stand up straight from the hunched position he was in by the open bonnet.

I'm about to simply go on with looking at the rest of the wall, but Eugene stutters with his words, nervously trying to explain himself for something that I have no apparent reason to be concerned about. I frown awkwardly, not really knowing what he wants from me.

"Motor oil," he blurts suddenly, and I make an effort not to startle. "Was leakin' through the head gasket'n gettin' into the antifreeze."

Having absolutely no idea about cars or any of that stuff what so ever, I simply nod awkwardly, "Erm... Glad you got it figured." I think that is what I am suppose to say.

Carl joins me, still looking at the wall and not particularly paying attention to the Scientist, but I glance at the teenager for a split second, begging him for help before snapping my gaze back to Eugene. As far as awkward interactions go, this one is well due to end. Eugene turns on his heel, climbs into the bus without another word.

For a moment I just sort of stand there, trying hard not to verbally ask what the fuck just happened. _**It's the mullet. I swear.**_ I make a noise, like an uncomfortable groan, returning my focus on what my original reason for being here was. So Carl and I keep scanning the wall.

"Carl, there's more."

They're on shutters and boards and window frames. But these aren't words. Just scratches, dents and chips.

"These could be from walkers," I try to convince myself.

"No," Carl shakes his head, steps around the corner and goes to a closed window, and he points at something on the shutters. "They were made by knives. Look, they're too thin'n deep to be from fingernails. Walkers can bite and scratch through skin easy, but not so much wood or plastic."

_**Damn! Where the hell did his observational skills come from all of a sudden? **_

"You could be a cop, or detective or something," I tell him, trying to lift the mood.

"Michonne said that to me," Carl tells me with a smile. But it fades, "you know, when, everything happened."

"Hey." It's the lady with the long legs and short shorts. Other than that though, she's thin and has dark green eyes and tanned skin and dark brown hair that hangs over each shoulder from two pig tails. "Everything okay?"

Carl and I look over to her. "Y-yeah," Carl says.

"You see something?" the woman asks, seeing right through us.

Carl shakes his head, "It's fine." When she is about to walk over, Carl asks, "How's the bus doin'?"

"Not much difference yet, but we're getting there," Abraham says, and Rosita stops, cocks an eyebrow at hm incredulously for answering her question. But instead of apologising to her, Abraham's expression changes for the first time since I've met him, grinning, winking, and it's such a surprise to me that I almost grin, too.

Regardless, Rosita is successfully distracted, and she retorts something to him that I'm sure Carl and I aren't supposed to hear, continuing to work on the truck together, apart from Eugene, who's been sitting in the vehicle staring at his walkie-talkie. Carl goes back to looking at the side of the Church, but I turn my attention to our surroundings, staying alert after what Rick told us this morning, and just as I think of the man, I recognise his voice coming from around front.

"Carl," I say quietly, and he keeps examining the marks, "they're back from the food bank."

He glances over his shoulder, pursing his lips, "Did they get the food?"

"Because I know the answer to that from here."

Carl rolls his eyes, but returns them to the wall, muttering a quiet, "Sarcastic ass," as he does.

Rick turns around the corner and smiles when he sees us. "Hey," he says to us.

"Hi," I wave, "glad you're back."

"Me, too," Rick tells us, and Carl stands, puts his hands on his hips, keeping his sights trained on the wall. "C'mon in. We found food, and a lot of it."

"Good." He might as well've said, _I'm not listening to you at all._ I get a sneaking suspicion that _someone's_ taking their detective duties a little too seriously. Rick cocks an eyebrow at me, as if to say, _What's going on? _and I raise my own brow and motion my head to the wall of the building in answer. "What is it?"

"Those scratches," Carl points at the damage. "They're deep, like, knives or something." A pause, and he looks at his father. "Someone was tryina get in."

Rick stays quiet, and he turns to us, squinting as he waits for us to enlighten him, so I nudge Carl's elbow, motioning my head to the corner to remind him where the message is.

"We found something else," Carl says, stepping away and strolling around the corner with me. Rick follows us. "We don't know what happened but, whatever it is, we can handle it."

Rick reads the message, his expression tensing. He reaches like I did, thumbing the deep letters. He suddenly looks like Carl. Or, Carl looked like him. It's a little unsettling. But then again, so is the message.

"Doesn't mean Gabriel's a bad guy for sure, but..." Carl pauses, glancing at me, "it means something."

Rick exhales, scratching at the _H,_ tapping his thumb against the snagged wood as he thinks. Like the rest of us, around and under his fingernails is a thick layer of dirt. Then he drops his arms, turning to face us, and he extends his arm. "C'mon inside, boys." I chew my lip, still kind of disturbed, and Rick glances at me, places his hand on my shoulder and pulls. "C'mon, we found some clean clothes."

As I have expressed before, I am constantly uncomfortable in these filthy clothes. I've been wearing them since the Prison, so my disgust is valid, and the very idea of finally getting my hands on a new set in the first time since then changes my mind fairly quickly, instantly if I'm hones.

"Thanks."

* * *

**Notes**

So they're finally getting some clean clothes! Hahaha, you have no idea how long I have waited for that!

In my opinion, despite what Rick told the boys, they didn't do a particularly great job in staying alert during the whole kissing scene, huh? haha

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_


	36. Strangers, Part 4: The Last Supper

**inazumahunter **Yeah, I was super satisfied to write them getting that closure together. Haha, thanks about the make-out scene. xx

**mks 12 98 **I can't tell you if I do or not. But it all depends on if I can fit her into future scenes. I loved Beth too xx I'm still hurting. Oh dear... now I'm considering saving her... oh God... I DON'T KNOW!

* * *

Re-edited: 10/10/2015

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Glenn, Maggie and Tara got back with a few gun silencers and a little extra ammo. With the water Carol and Daryl brought back, each of us have been able to wash up the most essential body parts with a bucket and sponge–both the bucket of water and sponge were replaced _repeatedly._ I don't know about anyone else, but I'm happy to be able to say that my genitalia is free from any irritation now, which is awesome. Really, _really _awesome. Rick and the others brought back over three days worth of food, along with scrounging up a new set of clothes for all of us.

Carl'd taken to a pair of dark jeans similar to his last, a dark blue short sleeve and a dark blue flannel shirt. Shortly after he emerged from the bathroom, I'd realised there wasn't much I like more than seeing Carl in a flannel. Like, I _really_ like it. He's still got the odd shoes though, much to my amusement. My new attire is fairly similar to his, though I had gotten a green plaid flannel and a dark grey long sleeve underneath it. Also, I've still got my matching boots.

It almost feels like being back at the Prison. I mean, all the food we have here is canned or packeted, sure, so it's not _exactly_ like the Prison. But it is definitely better than the unchanging meal of pecans and canned peaches we've been living off since.

Once everyone has taken their portion of diced tomatoes, mixed vegetables, canned chicken and squirrel, we all take our seats somewhere in the chapel nearest the altar. I sit on the floor with my back leant against the side of a bench, despite there being room _on _the bench. Carol, too, sits beside me leant against the bench behind.

_Furnitures overrated anyway, _she thinks to me, and I smirk.

I eat my supper quietly, smiling at the others as they all make friendly chatter together. I watch Judith kindly feed her father a piece of squirrel, and the man makes funny, "Ahhh," noises, opening his mouth wide, and them clamping his lips over the meat, grinning proudly at her. I snicker at them, secretly pretty proud of myself that I'd kind of taught her that trick.

"Oliver?"

I snap my head around, confused to see that Carol's holding out her hand. I sort of stare at her, swallowing a few diced tomato pieces. "Erm. Yeah?"

"Gimmie your beanie," she says, wriggling her fingers. They're long and pale and soft and clean. "I've seen it fall of your head more times than I can count. It's bothering me."

I laugh nervously. "What're you gonna do to it?"

Carol doesn't respond with words, but merely reaches up to the bench behind her and retrieves a little container. I'd seen it in Gabriel's office this morning. It's a sewing kit. I grin, pulling off my hat and ignoring the state of my hair as I hand it over, watching, fascinated, while Carol goes to work on it; closing up the snagged holes, stitching around the rim to tighten it.

"I look around this room and I see survivors."

I look at Abraham, my brow lifting when, for the second time in my life, I see a wide grin spread across his mouth under his bright orange moustache. _**Maybe he is a smiler after all. **__His smile is strange though. Like it's uncomfortable for him. __**You can hardly talk. You don't smile ever, unless you're with Carl, Carol, Judith or Ty. **_Carl comes over and takes a seat on the bench I'm leant on, sitting behind me with a plate full of food stocked it mostly with sweetcorn. His favourite. It makes me laugh. _**See?**_

"Each an' every one o' you has earned that title," Abraham says, and I pay my attention to him again, unable to shake the grin from my lips as I realise his is pretty contagious, and quite frankly glad that it's there on my expression. The Sargent lifts his wine glass, toasting. "To the survivors."

"To the Survivors!"

Most everyone cheers, raising their glasses of communal wine before taking a sip of it. Carl and I, of course, settled with just water which neither of us were particularly fussed about. Carl doesn't like alcohol after tasting some at the CDC and I've never particularly had much of an urge to try it anyway. _**But you still wanna try the Marlbolo cigarettes? **__That's different. __**How?!**__I don't know! It just is. I haven't even touched them yet._ To be honest I had forgotten all about them._**Then give them to Daryl. **__Okay, fine. I will when I get the chance._

I look around, seeing watching everyone set down their drinks, bar Glenn, Maggie and Tara, who all take quite a few sips of their wine, obviously making the most of their evening. But then, something familiar rings in my memory as Tara's glance catches mine, and without meaning to my expression drops. Her smile drops suddenly, too, and she quickly averts her eyes.

_**Oliver, quit it.**_

I look down at my plate. _**Way to be the creepies douche in the world, Oliver.**__But I've seen her before. __**Yeah? Where? **__I can't remember. __**Is she from one of the camps before the Prison? **__No, that's not it. __**At the Prison, maybe? **__Maybe..._

Oh.

I steal a glance at Tara again, my mind reeling.

* * *

"_I've become a bit of a jerky expert. I guess we all have lately." We were in that camper van. Hands bound. It was after The Governor had come in and band-aided mine and Michonne's injuries. I wanted my inhaler. I wanted to be at home in my cell reading comics with Carl. I wanted not to be sitting on the floor with blood drying over the side of my face. And there was that guy, Mitch, who'd manned the Governor's tank, and he was just sat in the corner, listening to Hershel, looking bored and annoyed. "But I've never tasted anything quite like the one I had today," Hershel went on. "I though I tasted paprika." He looked at Mitch, then me, asked, "or was it coriander?"_

_It was coriander. I knew this because a few days before Patrick and I had gone down to the garden and harvested it. But I kept quiet. Like usual._

"_I never knew why Brian was so scared of a one legged Santa, and a rasta bitch." Then Mitch looked at me, sneered shortly. "And ain't nobody afraid o' no f-"_

"_Brian," Hershel interrupted him, his forehead wrinkled a thousand times over, and I thought I would start crying. But I didn't. "So that's what he calls himself now. Brian."_

_Mitch ignored him, trained his gaze to Michonne, sighed, stared. . . "You ever stump her?" There was a pause, and it took me a few moments to realise what he was talking about. "Stump her, you know?" Mitch explained, and demonstrated by lifting one of his legs and bucking it forward towards her, his lower lip clamped under his teeth. "Would you stump? Huh?"_

_My gut clenched, and I saw the disgust on Hershel's face, and for the first time since I'd known him he suddenly looked afraid. Michonne looked furious. So furious I had to look away from her. I had to bring my hands up to my face and plug my ears. But I still heard him._

"_You better _believe,_" __Mitch said to Michonne, his voice low and dangerous. "Oh. I would _stump _the _shit _out o' you." A pause, and in it I held my breath. "Ain't polite to stare. You wanna be civil with me."_

Close your eyes, _I told myself._ Close your eyes and think of something nice. _But it didn't work, and I heard Mitch take out his blade, saw him stand up, walk over._

_My leg came out, fast, hard._

_It connected to his ankle, and with a growl, he hit the floor, and Michonne was up, grabbed his knife, Hershel up, too. But Mitch had a gun, pointed it at me._

"_Drop it or I kill the faggot."_

_Michonne did, and the knife fell at my feet, and in the same moment The Governor rushed inside, saw what had happened. But he went straight to Mitch as he put away his gun. "What'd I tell ya?" he asked, and his fist came up, crashing into Mitch's face. "Not a hair," he said as Mitch held his cheek. "Pack the cars," he ordered, turning to us, "we don't have much time."_

_Mitch left to do what he was told, and then, as I watched him leave, I saw her. She was stood just outside, watching through the open camper door, and her eyes locked onto mine. It was her. Pony Tails. She watched us get pulled out of the camper van and shoved into the back of a truck. I remember her guilty frozen stature as Rick addressed her through the fence, pleading for everyone's lives as she stood beside the tank that was about to tare through our home. She was part of the Governor's Militia._

_Tara._

* * *

Someone cheers again, snapping me out of my panic. I shake my head and eat another mouthful of canned tomato, forcing myself to swallow, stuffing more in, pulling at my beanie hat only to realise it isn't there, so dropping my hand in defeat. Maggie's grinning at me, and I realise she's just said something to me that I wasn't listening to. So I force a smile back, nodding and making a murmuring noise of agreement and hoping it passes for whatever she was saying to me. To my relief, she smiles and looks away to talk to Glenn, so I guess I must've responded to her correctly.

My head pounds. My heart accompanying it. A hand touches my shoulder, and I almost startle, but it's Carl, and his touch is soothing and familiar, so I lift my hand to his and run my thumb over it, pressing my lips to his scabbing knuckles and holding them there, staring at the back of the bench in front of me.

"You alright?" Carl asks quietly.

I look up to him, raising my eyebrows nonchalantly. "Yeah." I'm not the only one who knows who Tara is. It makes sense now. The understanding exchanges between her and Glenn. Why he didn't talk about her back-story. Why Rick spoke privately to her after Terminus. So I keep it to myself. If Tara is here, I trust that she isn't a bad person. The Governor was manipulative and cruel, and he had a knack of getting people to trust him when he didn't deserve it. She would've been lied to, exploited, I know that. "Yeah," I tell him again, resting my cheek on his hand. "I'm okay."

"Is that all you wanna be?"

We all glance at Abraham, trying to hold onto the uncommon buzz, but as soon as he asks I feel the surrounding mood slowly begin to diminish. I frown, confused, letting go of Carl's hand.

"Wake up in the morning, fight the un-dead pricks, forage for food, go to sleep at night – two eyes open, rinse'n repeat?" Abraham continues. "'Cause we can do that. I mean, you got the strength. You got the skill. Thing is, for you people – what you can do, now, that's jus' surrender."

_**How much has he had to drink?**_

I hear Carol take a breath behind me and I glance at her, seeing her watching the door, the grey fabric of my beanie ruffled under her hand. She looks back, sees me watching her. Doesn't say anything. My brow arches, my head dipping, silently asking if she's okay, but she only purses her lips and quickly snaps off the thread, putting the needle back in the sewing kit.

"Here," she mumbles, handing me my beanie. I can tell something's bothering her, a lot, but I can take a hint, too, so I thank her and look back to Abraham.

"Now," he says confidently, "we get Eugene to Washington and he will make the dead die and the living will have this world again. And that is not a bad take away for a little road trip."

I hear Judith hum, and Rick coos to her, gently kisses her head, and she rest forward on his chest again, tired. I smile, taking another bite of my meal.

"Eugene," Abraham addresses him, "what's in D.C.?"

He's sat opposite on the bench, and the scientist quietly clears his throat, sitting up. "Infrastructure constructed to withstand pandemics even to this food-bar magnitude," he answers.

I don't mean to, but my jaw kind of drops without my permission, completely zoning out from pretty much the first syllable of his sentence, and he glances at me, noticing my reaction, the blank look on his face one that I'm not sure is in annoyance or if that's just how he looks at people. Instantly though, my mouth snaps shut and I look away awkwardly. _**Well done you idiot. Way to look like the dumbest piece of walking shit in the room as well as the creepiest. **__Hey, shut the hell up. How could any of us understand that? I'm surprised that even he does.__**I told you, it's the mullet. It disguises him, makes him look like he's got fifty less IQ points that he really does. Clever really if you think about it.**__Yeah, I guess?_

"That means food, fuel, refuge," Eugene elaborates when he sees that it isn't only me that looks completely knocked off kilter. "Restart."

"However this plays out," Abraham interjects. "However long it takes for the Reset Button to kick in, you can be safe there – safer than you been since this whole thing started. Come with us? Save the world for that little one. Save it for yourselves. Save it for the people out there, who've got nothin' left 'cept survive."

A pause, and in it, I'm not exactly surprised to see how much everyone seems to be agreeing with him. Rick smiles and breathes a chuckle, and Judith coos to her father. "What was 'at?" he asks his daughter, earning a few chuckles. "I think she knows what I'm about to say."

Judith hums gorgeously.

"She's in," Rick states. My grin widens. "If she's in, I'm in. _We're _in."

Everybody cheers in agreement. It's probably weird, or whatever, but I can't help the elated chuckle I give out, the feeling in my heart that convinces me I'm about to wake up. I put on my beanie, and instantly feel the difference; the familiar feeling of comfort and security. It's tighter, and it makes me feel like I'm a little more collected, a little more in control, and only now after Carol's fixings do I realise how much I was missing out.

I finish my meal, see Carl's hand hanging over the arm rest of the bench beside to my face so I lift my hand, press the end of my fingers to the end of his. He glances at me, smiles, and then his torso tips forward, and I chuckle when he kisses the top of my head, whispering, "I just realised," and I look up at him and ask, What?" and he smiles, whispers, "I really, really love today," and I smile back and whisper, "Me, too."

And so for a little while longer I just think about how much I really, really, really love today.

"Give me your plate?" I offer finally, and Carl does, and I take Carol's, too.

"Thank you, sweetie." She's smiling. But with her mouth, not her eyes.

"Carol, you alright?"

She smiles wider. Her grey eyes strained and emptying, reminding me of that day. That terrible day. "I'm okay, Oliver."

I don't believe her, but I take her hint. Thank you, for my beanie."

Her head falls, but she plays it off as a nod, letting an inaudible, "Your welcome," form in her lips.

It's like a wall, and she's put it up against me. She's never done that before. It puts a lump in my throat, a rock in my gut, and I look away, not wanting to disturb her anymore. I take all of the plates over to the table with the other dirty plates. I was going to sit back in my original place, but Carol averts her eyes completely, and it makes me feel small and annoying, so I sit in front of Carl on the floor, bringing my legs up against my chest and wrapping my arms around them. Carl shifts behind me, and his right leg (which my shoulder was pressed to) lifts and he carefully swings it over me, his hand touching my shoulder and pulling, so I lean back against both his knees.

"Washington D.C. now then, huh?" he says, fiddling with the edge of my beanie.

"I guess so." I close my eyes, relax against him, let my spine and shoulder blades mould to the shape of his limbs.

"Guessing it won't jus' be _'a little road trip'._"

There it is. That good old Grimes Pessimism. I smirk, my head jerking back gently when Carl gently pulls off my beanie. He leaves it beside him, then plays with my hair. Like he doesn't even notice it. I'm smiling regardless, his tactility something I'm definitely not complaining about.

"How far do you think it is?" he asks a moment later.

"Just about six or seven-hundred miles."

I see upside down as Carl cocks an eyebrow at me, impressed that I knew the answer so quickly and that it was so sure of itself. "How'd you know?"

Okay, so, there's this thing, on top of all of the other things lately, that I've been trying not to think about. This is one of them. "Lorton, where I used to live. I know how far we are here in Macon." On the track here, I'd found a map in a store. There wasn't anything to do, and Judith was sleeping, and Carl was keeping watch after Tyreese had just fallen asleep, so I know that – "Home's only about twenty miles South-West of D.C. We'll probably go through it to get there."

"Oh. You okay?" Carl asks, sensing my discomfort.

I nod a little. Then stop. "It's just. . . Mom and Dad. They're still there." Carl looks like he might say something, but I shake my head. "It's okay. It's – it's whatever."

Gently, he kisses my forehead, whispers, softly and dubiously, "It's not just whatever, Oliver."

The brim of his hat touches my lips, and I can feel my breath shake, my brow knit together, suddenly and against my consent, and my hand raises to the back of his neck, fighting that horrible feeling just before you cry. My fingers close into his hair, so simply grateful that I'm not sure what to do with myself. He leans up when I let go of him, pushing my parents to the back of my mind, and soon, without even realising it, I fall asleep.

* * *

I'm not sure how long it is later, but I'm pulled back into consciousness when I feel Carl shift his weight behind me, snapping my head up dizzyingly, seeing Rick handing Judith over to his son.

"Sorry," Rick apologises to me. "Didn't meana wake you."

I shake my head and smile, "It's cool. I was awake anyway."

"Sure, Oliver," Rick smirks, before going across the chapel and talking with Father Gabriel. Carl snickers.

"What?" I yawn.

"You were awake, huh?"

I shrug.

"Sounded pretty asleep to me," he mumbles. "Or do you just snore when you're awake now or something?"

I scoff, ignoring him. Pretty much everywhere below my waist is numb, so I flex my toes and kneel up, regaining sense in my butt and legs and feet, wincing when it's uncomfortable. I think of Carol, wondering if she's still sat on the floor or if she's gotten the good sense to sit on a bench yet. But when I look around I don't see her. I sit up better, scan around the chapel, hearing Carl coo as he cradles Judith to sleep. But still, Carol isn't anywhere to be seen.

"You okay?" Carl asks.

"Carol?"

Bad feeling.  
It pulls at my gut, like a walker.

He looks where she was sat, frowns, "I dunno. Didn't see her move."

I stand up, walking around the bench, remembering the way Carol was staring at the door earlier. _**She wouldn't. She... She'd say so first. **_I go to Gabriel's office first, rather suddenly pushing the door open. "Caro – Oh shit!" I startle, foolishly not expecting to see the man in here, and Gabriel jumps up, his hands separating from their intertwinement against his forehead, snapping around to see me. He was preying.. "Shit, I'm – oh." _**Don't curse in church.**_ "Sorry."

He's stuttering, rushing to pick up a picture of something I don't try to look at. "Excuse me," he apologises shakily.

"Sorry," I say, panicking. "I was – sorry, I'll – Shit – _ack, _sorry. Jesus. Sorry." I leave the room, closing the door, my cheeks red and my worry for Carol still nagging in my gut, like I've eaten a football. "Oh my God."

Shaking off my awkwardness, I go into the office opposite to look there, knocking this time, and then knocking on the bathroom doors. But it's empty. So I march back into the chapel, everything in my body turning tense and rigid.

"Y'alright?" Daryl asks.

"Yeah." I'd been heading to the front door, not considering that doing so is probably a bad idea, especially alone. So I come to, spinning around to face him. Then glancing at the door again. "Have you seen Carol?"

He looks at where she'd been, frowns. "Why?"

I shake my head and shrug, "I-I was asleep. Carl said he didn't notice her go."

Daryl narrows his eyes, and he kind of grunts in that gruff Daryl way that means he's trying to steer a conversation to its end. "She's probably jus' gone to the bathroom."

"Daryl," I blurt, serious, and panic is crawling up my spine like dirty fingers. That's the first time I've ever addressed him by his name. It tastes funny. Stale. It makes me avert my eyes and hold my temples. "Sorry – M-Mr. Dixon. It's just, she wanted to leave... after everything that happened at the Prison, and." I stop, not sure if Daryl knows about the girls yet. "W-with Karen and David. She doesn't think she can stay."

Daryl frowns, glares. The scars jut across his face, so fiercely and suddenly that I have to stop myself from startling. "Ya know 'bout that?" I nod, swallowing the dryness in my throat. Then, suddenly, something seems to click in his brain, because he turns on his heel, starting for the exit and without hesitating I head after him. But stops, holds a hand up, crossbow swinging. "No, I don't need ya goin' missin', too."

"She's not missing."  
_**Do you know that, though?  
**_"She's just. . . Look, I won't slow you down. _Swear_ it."

Daryl purses his lips.

"I can help," I almost hiss. "Please?"

"Nah," he grunts. "I won't be long. Think I know where she's gone. I'll be back in a few. Need you here case she comes back, or case I don't."

_Fuck._

"Got it, Oliver?"

"Yes, sir," I relent, stepping back, watching him leave.

_**He'll be back. They both will. They have to.**_

"I know." My hands come up, covering my face, gripping my fringe. "I know, I knowIknowIknow."

Carl watches me take a seat beside him, reading the worry on my expression. "What're you thinkin'?"

"That. . ."

_I can't even say it._

"That, she's left us?" I manage, asking rather than stating it, which helps.

"Why?"

_**Will you tell him?**__I think so. I mean, he already knows about Mika and Lizzie. __**Yeah, but you weren't suppose to tell him about them. Ty wants to forget.**__Yes, that's true. But I can't forget about them. I said so. I don't want to. I can't. I owe it to Mika and Lizzie not to forget. Ever. Ty said that he was going to tell everyone anyway, and Carl is smart enough not to react badly. He'll be okay with it, especially if I am._

"Karen and David?" I begin, keeping my voice low under the quiet chatter, and he nods, remembering the murders. "It was Carol. She did it 'cause she – She was trying to stop the illness from spreading." I'm not really sure what to call Carl's expression. This is defnitely news to him. But he waits, listens. "Your dad found out. That's why she never came back from their run together. He. . . He sent her out on her own. She doesn't feel welcome any more. I don't know if it's because she feels guilty after everything else we've had to do but, back on the tracks, she said she was gonna make sure we were safe at Terminus then leave... I think she might still believe that's what she needs to do."

Carl stares into his lap, frowning. "Dad an' Tyreese's fight, was that why?"

I shake my head, "No. Ty didn't know until Carol told him. We were at the Grove, just after the girls died." I answer him, trailing off. But I pick myself up: "Their fight was because Ty got mad. His girlfriend died, so, he was still mourning, angry, took it out on Rick, and, your dad took out some of his own anger on him, too, I guess."

"Yeah," he whispers softly. "And Tyreese? He's okay with it? What she did?"

I hear Rick and Tyreese laughing over by the table, turn my head and glance at them. Tyreese is telling a story about when he and Sasha were kids. When I look back to Carl again, I sigh. "No," I answer truthfully. "But he's forgiven her."

"Have you?"

I think of the way Carol looked at me after my asthma attack, back when everyone was scared it was because I'd gotten the illness from Patrick. I know now that Carol was afraid she'd have to put me down like Karen and David, too, and I know that she_would_ have, too. To try and save everyone.

"Yes."

Carl puts Judith in her basket, smiling the littlest bit when he looks at me. "We've all done stuff. But we can start over now."

I touch his neck, running my thumb under his hat, pulling gently to plant a kiss on his cheek, then pressing our foreheads together. "Yeah," I second him. "Yeah, we can."

I pull away and face the bench in front, restlessly glancing at the Church door again, worried. _**Daryl and Carol aren't back yet.**_ I have to look away again, grabbing my beanie from the other side of Carl and sliding it over my head. _That's better. A little at least._ Though it isn't five minutes later, when my worry has become so intense that I can't bare it any more, that I stand up, marching to Rick. But then Glenn speaks:

"Where's Sasha?"

"Oh. She went to find Bob a few minutes ago," Tara answers, and I stop in my tracks, feeling as if I have just walked through an invisible sheet of ice.

"Bob's gone?" Maggie and Rick both say.

"Carol and Daryl haven't come back either," I utter, chills running through me. That's four of our group. Gone. Like they've been slowly picked off, one by one.

"_What_?" Rick hisses, and his lips curl into a snarl. "How long've they been gone?"

"I-I'm not sure. Daryl went to find her a few minutes ago," I explain. "He said he'd be back in a little while, but." _Oh God. _"I'm sorry, I should've told you sooner."

"Me, too," Tara says nervously.

Rick grits his teeth, looking as though he is ready to roar at us. But he marches to the door, growling, "Stay here. Don't need you both out there. Tyreese, come with me. I need the rest o' ya'll to stay here case we don't come back."

_That's what Daryl said..._

I stand rigid, watching the two men un-holster their weapons and leave. The door slams closed behind them, and I flinch. A moment passes, until Carl grabs the ends of my fingers, pulls, and as I go with him to the bench my eyes linger on the closed door, feeling my spine crawl as the wooden surface still shakes and shudders against its hinges.

Carl takes a seat, his sister awake now after the slamming, looking startled, and she only doesn't cry because Carl is quick to give her a bottle, and he looks at me, expecting me to join him. But I can't sit down. I can't relax. Anything could've happened to them. Carol, Daryl, Bob, Sasha. They could be hurt. They could be lost. _What if walkers got them? What if they're being attacked? They could be out there right now screaming for help as they're ripped limb from limb. __**Oh, God. Oh, God!**_

"Oliver?"

Maggie's voice snaps me out of my panic. I realise I'd been pacing along the bench three rows behind where I was a moment ago with Carl. I'd been stepping four times one way then four times the other. So I stop, grip the back of the bench in front of me, grinding my teeth and glaring at the stack of bibles on the seat next to her.

"You gotta calm down, sweetie," Maggie says gently, and her hand rests on mine, gently running her thumb over the back of my wrist. "You'll only drive yourself crazy gettin' worked up like this."

"Try to think of something else, buddy," Glenn adds, and I grimace. He sounds like my freaking dad. It's too late before I realise I'd shot him a glare, but it turns into a wince, seeing how worried he looks about me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

With another soothing stroke, Maggie takes back her hand, pursing her lips into a worried smile. "Sit down, Oliver," she says gently, looking at the stack of bibles, and she thumbs at one, picking it up. I'm nodding, having to think hard about pulling myself from where I'm stood to walk over to Carl, and I'm about to sit down, wait with him, try to relax. . .

But then the Church doors swing open.

* * *

**Notes**

Oliver got his hat tightened! YAY X

Don't forget to check out **Stale M&amp;M's : The Stories of Oliver's Past**

Latest chapter is his first kiss with Penelope x

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_


	37. Four Walls and a Roof, Part 1: Trapped

**inzumahunting **Nah, who do you think I am? I wouldn't dare separate them ever again... or would I...? *evil laugh* AW! Thank you xx I can't believe that people are willing to re-read my stuff! THANKS!

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"Stop."

Sasha marches through the Church. Rick and Tyreese following. The door creaks closed behind them. No Carol, Daryl or Bob. I watch, stood like a statue as Sasha squares up to Father Gabriel.

"What're you doing?" she asks him, her voice low, dangerous. Gabriel stares at her, confused and startled. He slowly walks towards her, bible in hand, grasping it as if it can create a barrier between him and the woman. "_What_ are you doing?" Sasha repeats. "This is all connected. You show up. We're being _watched._ An' now three of us are _gone._"

Gabriel looks around desperately, but no one helps him. We all want answers. "I..." he begins, eyes wide with fear. "I don't... I don't have anything to do with this."

Sasha takes out her knife.

Instinctively I rise from my seat. "Sasha..."

"Don't!" Rosita shouts, reacting, too, but Abraham holds her back, and in the same moment Carl grabs my own wrist.

"Put it away!" Rick growls.

"Who's out there?" Sasha orders. But Gabriel stutters, enraging her. "_Where_ are our people?"

"I don't have anythi-"

"WHERE ARE OUR PEOPLE?!"

"Please?" Gabriel begs, almost stumbles back. "I don't have anything to do with this. I-I."

Sasha steps away, shaking her head, trying frantically to settle her hysteria. But then Rick steps forward to the priest. "Why'd you bring us here?" he asks sternly.

"Please?" Gabriel begs, holding his hands up, "I... I-I-"

"You workin' with someone?"

"I'm alone," Gabriel answers frantically. "I'm alone. I was always alone."

"What about that woman in the food bank, Gabriel?" Rick asks. "What did you do to her?" He pauses, waiting for an explanation that doesn't arrive. Quite frankly, the question terrifies me. _He's talking about a walker. __**He has to be.**_ "'You will burn for this'," Rick goes on, "that was meant for you. Why? What're you gonna burn for, Gabriel?"

Gabriel tries to plead his innocence again but Rick lunges, grabbing him by the shoulders and shoving him into the wooden railing behind.

"_What?_ What, did you do?" Rick orders. "WHAT DID YOU DO?"

He lets go, and Gabriel grips the altar banister, trying to find his voice again. I've taken a seat again, and I'm gripping Carl's hand, feeling vulnerable and small and disturbed.

"I lock the doors at night," Gabriel mutters shakily. "I always lock the doors at night. I _always_ lock the doors at nig-" He's crying, takes a moment to compose himself. "They started coming. My congregation. Atlanta was bombed the night before – they were scared, they were-they were, looking for a safe place. A place where they felt safe." He's rambling, the trauma in his words seeping horror up my spine. I see Carl's expression, realising where Gabriel is going with this, too. "An' it was so _early._ It was _so early. _The doors were still locked, you see? It was my choice. But there was so many of them, and they were, tryina pry the shutters and banging on the side'n s-screaming at me. And so, the dead came for them."

I stare at him, horrified. His eyes meet mine, but this time I don't look away. I watch, disgusted, and his gaze shifts between Carl and I, the younger having the same reaction as me.

"Women," Gabriel adds, nodding as he talks as if to prove how despicable he is. "Children," he sobs. "Entire families calling my name as they were torn apart. Begging me for mercy. Begging me for mercy. . . Damning me to Hell." He clutches his fists to his chest, praying into them. "I buried their bones. I buried it all. The Lord sent you here to finally punish me." We watch as he collapses to the floor, arching his brow, looking up at Rick. "I'm damned!" he sobs. "I was damned before. I always lock the doors. I always lock the doors!"

Sasha puts away her knife. Everyone else leaves Gabriel, walking back to their benches, tired and exasperated and worried. I keep watching him, gritting my teeth, and he sobs hysterically on the chapel floor. _**Who the hell does he believe he is? Important enough for us all to've been sent here just to punish him. Why does he think God cares enough about him – about any of us, to waste his time damning us to Hell? We've been living in our own version of it since this whole thing started.**_

Then there is whistling.

Glenn rushes to the window. More whistling, droning through the Church. It makes my skin crawl. "Wh-what's happening..."

"There's something," Glenn trails. "There's someone outside lying in the grass."

Everyone rushes to the door.

"Sasha!" Rick barks when she sprints past, out into the driveway. I'm at the door when she screams.

"BOB!"

Then I see him. Just like Glenn said. Lying in the grass. But there's something else. For a moment I think the dark is playing tricks, but then I focus on it, or rather, I fail to focus on it. There's nothing to focus on.

Bob's left leg is gone.

"His leg," Maggie mutters. Sasha crouch beside her boyfriend, and he groans.

"Guys, walkers," I utter.

"Get Bob inside!" Glenn orders. "Take care of him!"

Rick, Maggie and Glenn rush to the defence, and I take aim, too, hitting my target, shooting a walker that'd been headed towards Rick. He glances behind his shoulder at me, nodding when he sees that I'd done it before shooting at a few other walkers. But then gunfire bulldozes through the Church property. But it's not from us. Then there is a yank on my shoulder, and Michonne is shoving me back inside, Carl too, panicking, and we hear Sasha's begging as she and Tara try to hoist Bob from the ground.

More gunshots.

"Get inside!" Rick roars, shooting into the tree line at invisible enemies. "GO!"

Bob is lugged past us, barely kept from being dropped as they set him on the floor by the altar. His leg's bandaged. Tended to. _**How did this happen? **__Two hours ago he was fine! _Rick marches into the building, slamming the doors closed behind him, catching his breath.

"They've been watchin' us," he seems to scold himself, and he turns, joining us around our injured friend.

"Bob," Sasha pleads, "what happened to you?"

"I was in the grave yard!" Bob winces, hissing through gritted teeth between sentences. "Somebody knocked me out. I woke up outside this place. Looked like a-a school. It was that guy. Gareth. And five other ones. They were eating my leg right in fronta me, like it was nothin', all proud, like they had it all figured out."

For a moment I'm not really sure I heard his right. I sort of blank. This whole time since running into Martin that day I knew Terminus was a bad place, and as Carol and I invaded the territory we'd discovered more of their lunacy and twisted beliefs. Luring people there to kill them and take their stuff. I had assumed that it ended their, like some sick sacrificial ritual or something. But this? Eating a man's leg? The thought'd never even crossed my mind.

_**They ate his fucking leg?! What the fuck?! Who the fuck does that?! How does someone do that?! Walkers fucking eat people! People don't fucking eat people! That's sick!**_ My stomach lurches, bile rising, so I lift my hand and press it over my mouth, closing my eyes and focussing on not yacking.

"Did they have Daryl?" Rick asks.

"A-and Carol?" I find myself murmuring.

"Gareth said they drove off."

I fall silent. Suddenly, a great crack splits open in my whole life. It turns me inside out. I have to put my hands on something flat, my fingers digging into the floor so hard that I chip the wood. _She left? She left us? No, she can't have. Daryl went with her. He wouldn't just leave us all, too, would he?__** Why not...? Carol left you. All of you. **__Why wouldn't he, too?_

Bob begins to pant from his agony.

"He's in pain," Sasha pleads, "do we have anything?"

"I think there're still packets in the first aid kit," Rosita offers quietly.

"Save'm!" Bob hisses.

"No," Sasha argues.

"_Really!_" Tears stream from his eyes, struggling to sit up, and he reaches for his shoulder.

_Oh._

My stomach drops, knowing exactly what he's about to do. So Bob rolls down the collar of his shirt, revealing the torn, ripped, and bitten flesh on his shoulder. Dread floods, oozing from every living soul in here. All anyone can do if stare at the bite.

"It happened at the food bank," Bob explains to his girlfriend.

"It's okay." She's crying. Of course she is. Crying while she helps him lie down again. "Bob."

"There's a sofa, in my office," Gabriel offers, speaking for the first time since his confession. "I know it's not much, but..."

"Thank you," Sasha says gratefully.

"I got him," Tyreese offers.

My stomach is wringing itself out. I try to ignore it, and Carl takes my hand, pulling. So without a word, I follow him. Judith's crying, so he grabs her and carries her into the supply room opposite Gabriel's office. It's too loud out here in the altar. The air's too stale. She doesn't like it.

"She needs to sleep," he says over her.

Tyreese carries Bob into Gabriel's office, and the injured man groans in his pain. My gut it screaming, so I look away, swallowing and nodding to what Carl'd said, but even the simple movement causes my stomach to twist.

"C'mon," Carl says, and we enter the supply room. It has a desk and a chair, much like Gabriel's office, but it's cleaner here. Less used. But all I really take notice of is the fact that there's bathroom. I try to ignore my nausea, and I beg my gut to settle. But the dread of never seeing Carol again, and the looming danger of cannibals preying on us at this very moment, and my already full stomach after eating more than my fill mere hours ago. . .

It's too much.

The bathroom door slams open, and I double over, mumbling things I don't realise as I shove the seat of the toilet up. Then it all comes up, in a wave, and I yack everything. Absolutely everything. For so long that my stomach and throat are raw and I feel like I'm about to pass out. _**Stupid weak stomach. Stupid letting this all get to me so much. Stupidstupidstupid. **_I don't know when Carl came in and began rubbing circles into my back. I'd be embarrassed if I weren't so horrified, so I just keep yacking, spewing chunks into the porcelain.

"I AM TRYINA SAVE YOUR'S – SAVE EVERYONE'S!"  
"They're comin' back!"  
"TO WHAT? PICKED OVER BONES?! LET GO OF MY HANDS!"  
"Abraham!"  
"Hey, stop!"

We hear the yelling coming from the chapel. Abraham, Rick, Rosita and Glenn. But I'm too focussed on not collapsing to know what it's about. Until, finally, I'm just about empty, wheezing as I rest against the toilet, too drained to move myself.

"Here," he says gently, and he grabs some tissue, hands it over, helping pull me from the toilet. I mumble something that was supposed to be a _thank you,_ wiping my mouth, pushing myself to lean against the wall. I drop the tissue into the toilet. But when I hear Bob cry out from inside Gabriel's office, I roll over, clambering for the toilet and yacking up again. Once that second serving of diced tomatoes is added to the chunks, I try to flush it, but the plumbing hasn't been working for a while it seems because it does almost nothing, so instead I just push down the seat.

"Sorry."

"Here," Carl says, handing me a water bottle and more tissue, and it amazes me that he's still in here bearing this.

I wipe and rinse, quickly spitting into the toilet before resting against the wall, gulping as much of the water as my sore stomach will allow. Carl sits opposite me, holding a now calm Judith in his arms. Judith settles easier when she is being held, the same way some babies sleep easier in cars, though, we don't have that luxury. Though she's still awake, especially after all of my yacking.

I become aware of footsteps. Marching. Fast.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait!" Glenn growls. "Hey, hey, hey!"

"Carl," I whisper. He's listening to them. I think from his angle he can see them, too, because he definitely looks like he's watching them, a firm scowl on his expression, "w-what's going on?"

"Abraham wants to go, now," he whispers, watching the argument going on outside. "They're tryina get 'im to wait until morning. Tara said she'll go, too. But he wants Maggie an' Glenn."

My eyes widen for a moment, Abraham's logic and audacity astounding me, angering me. _Splitting us up? After everything we've just been through to find each other?! _But instead of voicing myself, I stay quiet, listen.

"You stay," Glenn says. "You stay and help us. And we will go with you."

My eyes widen. "What?"

"No," Rick argues.

"It's not your call," Glenn tells him. "You stay," he says to Abraham, "help us."

"Half a day," Abraham bargains. "Come high noon were tail-lights. No waitin' for the other damn shoe to drop."

"And we will leave with you," Maggie confirms, and my heart clenches.

"Twelve hours," Abraham says, "an' we go."

* * *

**Carl's POV**

For a long time we sit on the bathroom floor. I scowl at the flood, Oliver doing the same, both of us silently processing everything that's happening. Everyone's settled now, muttering quietly on what our next move will be. I notice Oliver looking at something outside of the bathroom and I follow his gaze to the wall in his view opposite outside in the office. It's covered in drawings; a baby in a basket floating in a reedy stream, more of a bush on fire, the colours unrealistic and done by children. They're depicted from Bible stories that I can't remember. But I realise Oliver's looking at the script on the wall in a frame. It reads:

"_And let us not grow weary of doing good  
__For in due season we will reap if we do not give up_

_Galatians 6:9"_

"Goddamn it," Oliver mutters suddenly.

Both Judith and I startle.

I know he's mad. Provoked by the message. Losing himself in his frustration and worry. I know why, too. Doing good? It's a controversy aim nower days. We _are_ good people. We just have to do bad things, sometimes. Oliver's just angry that we haven't reaped the benefits from it all yet, or maybe he's wondering if we deserve to reap from it at all.

Judith begins crying.

Oliver's brow arches, "Sorry."

She starts to fidget, too, thrashing in my arms.

"It's fine," I mumble as I try to settle her, cooing, and she whimpers into my shirt, her eyelashes fluttering over my collar bones, crying crying crying. "She'll fall asleep again in a minute. If we stay quiet."

Oliver takes another quiet swig of his water before glancing at us, shaking his head, "No," he disagrees empathetically. "She's too stubborn. She's not sleeping any time soon, now."

For a moment, I almost feel jealous of how in tune Oliver and Judith are. In the time they had together since the suburb house, their bond's strengthened as close as I think I've ever seen between Judith and another person unrelated to her. Maybe even more so than Dad and I. I've seen Judith wail in both mine and my father's arms with no sign of relenting no matter how softly we coo to her. But Oliver? Judith only has to feel his arms around her to settle. I know Oliver knows this, too. But he's being kind enough not to offer his assistance, sensing my mild dismay towards it. But I realise that this is ridiculous, petty, insignificant and immature, so I sigh, extending my little sister towards him.

"Jus' take 'er."

"Hey. No. Don't give up so fast. Just hold her."

So I do as he says, rolling my eyes. But Judith doesn't settle, her wailing increasing, making my brain rattle. "It's not working."

"Shh, just stay still a moment," Oliver says gently. "Try to let her have her feet pressed against your arm. It makes her feel safe."

I hold his gaze, narrowing my eyes, but I sigh, doing as he says. She doesn't stop crying.

"Okay, now tap your feet on the floor. The noise and the patting on her back'll calm her."

Remaining sceptical, I do as Oliver says, gently drumming my toes on the floor and the top of my knees gently knock against the back of her tiny spine. But to my amazement, as the bathroom and supply room fill with the faint tapping of my odd shoes. . . Judith stops crying.

I glance up at Oliver, kind of amazed.

He grins at me. "Now stroke her nose." I must give him a sceptical look because he nods and motions to her. "I'm serious. It works. From the top of her forehead right to the end of her nose. Swear. Works a miracle."

I sort of scoff a laugh, but instead I lift my hand, placing the pad of my thumb just below the faint outline of Judith's hairline. Her eyes train on my hand and she keeps her head absolutely still, as if she knows what I'm doing, and when I gently run my extremity down her forehead, along the tiny line of her nose, her eyes begin to close. Again, I glance up to Oliver in awe. He grins, motions for me to do it again, so I do. Her eyelids droop, and her breathing slows, and soon, after a few more grazes down her face, those delicate eyes finally close. I still can't tell if they take after my father or Shane. They're blue, like mine, like my father's. Only, they're totally unique. With a gentle and faint ring of dark brown flecks around her pupils making the black and brown almost blend into the blue.

I'm smiling, and I look at Oliver, holding his gaze, and I whisper, "You're good at handling her."

"She's a Stubborn Grimes," Oliver smirks. Though, the modesty doesn't last. "I've had practice at dealing with her brother."

I chuckle, agreeing completely but refusing to say so, and he takes my free hand, the bathroom cubicle being narrow enough that it's easy to reach and hold onto each other. His thumb runs over my knuckle, resting our tangled extremities on the floor, trying not to think about the looming danger that hovers over the Church like a bird of prey.

"Carol'll be back," I say finally. Oliver's hand stops moving, but he doesn't say anything. "She will. They both will."

He almost winces. "No."

"Ol–"

"She said she'd go."

A pause.

"I. . . I knew she would. But, I-I thought. . . I thought I'd have more time to change her mind." I think he's done, and so does he by the looks of it, but he suddenly hiccups, and his voice becomes heavy and thick and emotional, trembling. "She didn't even say goodbye." Tears well in his eyes, and he looks up, hurting. _Really _hurting. "She just left me."

For a moment, all I see is myself. Thirteen years old, watching my mom die. I know it's not exactly the same with this situation, given that Carol isn't dead, neither is she his mother. But the neglect – the loss. . . It can make you feel totally alone in a roomful of people. I see it in him. Like I see it in myself. It puts a rock in my throat.

I'm shuffling, carefully as not to wake my sister, and my hand finds his nape, and our foreheads press. "She'll come back, Oliver."

He starts crying. I've only ever seen him cry on a few occasions before. But right now? Now he's crying almost like he did when his brother died. I'm hugging him, and he's sobbing into my shoulder, clutching my shoulder blades, staying quiet and careful enough not to disturb Judith too much.

"She'll come back," I whisper again, meaning it, too. Nodding to prove it. He closes his eyes, his eyelashes clumping from the wet. Under them, dark circles loom, expressing his fatigue and trauma. He looks so drained, like a doll passed down through generations. It's so sad. _He's _so sad. But he nods back, meaning it, too, as much as he can.

"You two alright?"

I almost startle at Dad's voice, mine and Oliver's short embrace cut to finish. Dad stands in the doorway, wrinkling his brow as he sees the three of us cooped in the bathroom cubicle together. I am sure seeing Oliver's face pale and soaked with tears and Judith in my arms instead of in her cot and me looking however miserable I must look must be a little unexpected for him.

"Yeah," I answer, shuffling back to hold Judith properly. "Oliver's jus' not feelin' very well."

"I'm fine," Oliver lies, wiping his face. "Is everything alright out there with you all. We heard... uh, you know, the arguing and all."

"Hmm," Dad nods slowly, pausing for so long that I think that's all he'll say. But then he motions us out of the bathroom, "Listen. I gotta talk to you both."

We stand up, heading into the room and taking a seat at the desk, placing my sister back in her cot, fast asleep. Oliver pulls himself onto the desk surface beside me, propping his feet on the edge of my seat. Dad's weight shifts on his hips, glancing around before finally looking at us. . .

"We've got a plan."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

I won't lie, I'm terrified.

If this doesn't work, _everyone_ will die tonight. If we get the timing off, even by a moment, _everyone_ will die. But I trust Rick. I trust Michonne and Sasha and Glenn and Maggie. I trust Daryl to return. . . and Carol. So I help prepare for what we're all about to do.

"Oliver," Rick says quietly, handing me extra ammo for my Glock, "take this."

"Thanks." I stuff the full magazine into my back pocket with the Morley cigarettes. I'd forgotten they were in there. They're pretty squashed now though. "You okay?" I ask when Rick doesn't get to gearing up yet.

He purses his lips, his forehead wrinkling, inhaling. "I wanted to ask you a favour," he starts, and I nod without hesitating. "I was wonderin' if you'd let me use your machete? Jus' for tonight. Figured you won't need it with your extra rounds anyway."

My expression tenses for a millisecond, instinctively going on defence, but almost in the same moment I'm reaching over my shoulder and pull off both my machete and sheath. "Why?" is all I ask, curious, and Rick pauses, and when he does answer, his voice is low and raspy and serious. . .

"I made a promise."

Soon, Rick, Michonne, Glenn, Maggie, Tara, Sasha and Abraham leave the Church, leaving the rest of us in darkness, hiding in silence in Gabriel's office. . .

Listening.  
Expecting.  
Waiting. . .

For everything.

* * *

**Notes**

Okay, I'm just gonna get this off my chest...

I only wrote Oliver rushing off to throw up so that I didn't have to write the dialogue where everyone was talking, uhhh, I'm sorry I just was so lazy so I made it into my own scene. I feel dirty... AH I'M SORRY!

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_


	38. Four Walls and a Roof, Part 2: Hungry

**westerlo4 **I have made my choice... Beth's fate has been decided. I guess you will just have to wait and see xxx

**GreekGoddess102 **Hello! Love to you, too! Thank you so much! That's so lovely for you to say xxxx

**inazumahunter **hehehehe I swear, when the machete is made into merch. I'm going to comic con and buying it!

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Re-edited: 17/10/2015

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**Oliver's POV**

Time passes like chalk on a board. Every second feeling longer than the last. Scraping by with a silent sting that burrows deep into my bones. The only noise I hear is our breath, and the continual _tap... tap... tap..._ of Carl's index finger beating a slow, faint rhythm into the handle of his gun. But I hold onto that noise, focusing on it obsessively – wanting him never to stop in fear of the true silence that attempts to fill every crevice of the Church like tar into a road-crack, for true silence is terrifying. True silence, I have come to learn, is deadly.

Judith's awake, despite the quiet. Sensing our dismal and worried moods. It's clear she won't be sleeping tonight after all, just like the rest of us. I keep my eyes trained on her, hers on mine, too, almost like she's searching my expression for an explanation to everything that's confusing her right now.

It's the footsteps I hear first.

Back at The Prison, I read a book about African wildlife. I'm not sure what it was called, just that I read it because I knew I'd never get to go there myself. But Africa was still there – _is_ still there, so I wanted to learn about it. But anyway, I read about how zebra foals can identify their mother's by their stripes. But it didn't make sense. How can it recognise something that's so similar to everything else? It bothered me so much that I re-read the page more times than I care to admit.

But I get it now.

I'm not sure what it is about my family's footsteps. Maybe it's that I've known them all for long enough now to recognise them, because it isn't often that I'll hear someone like Carol or Rick or Michonne or Carl walking up behind me or around a corner and I won't know who it is. Like a zebra's stripes, each footstep belonging to an individual member of my family is similar, but completely unique in its own way. It's the slight scuff of Rick's boots that give him away. Carl, much like his father, walks with a scuff, though it's lighter than Rick's. With Michonne, it's her determined and confident pace that makes her footsteps easy to recognise. Tyreese has heavy, distinct beats as his boots hit the ground, and a faint squeak in them. Carol has a very light and precise step, much like my own.

But these footsteps? They aren't from my family. Similar amount of them. But I don't recognise any one of them. It makes me feel like a zebra foal that's just stumbled into the wrong herd. But _this_ herd? It just so happens to be a pride of lions instead.

I glance to Carl beside me, my heartbeat bashing against my chest, adrenaline thrown around my body. He meets my gaze for the shortest second, a slight, almost unnoticeable smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, reminding me that this is all going to plan, and I let out a breath I didn't realise I was holding, grateful for him, even in this circumstance.

They're breaking in now, and we all take out our guns, aiming at the office door. Bob lays still and weak on the couch, wincing from the lingering pain in his amputated leg as Tyreese tries to settle him. Father Gabriel cowers behind his desk, clutching his prayer beads and mumbling nothings into them, Judith in her basket beside him. She's glancing around the room, nervous, listening to the front door finally break open with a loud snap, and so, the hunters enter the building, slowly making their way through the chapel.

"Well, I guess you know we're here!"

A man. I've never heard him before. His voice is clear, confident, articulate. I'm assuming he's the leader of Terminus. Gareth. One glance at Carl and his nod of confirmation back is all I need to know that my suspicion is true.

"And _we_ know _you're_ here. _And_ we're armed. So there's really no point in hiding anymore."

We listen, hearts pounding, postures stiff, hearing their footsteps coming closer and closer.

"We've been watching you. We know who's here," Gareth calls. "There's, Bob–unless you put him out of his misery already." My blood boils, Glock aimed at the centre of the door, seeing in the corner of my eye Carl's gun barrel doing the same, and I'm gritting my teeth to stop the rest of me from trembling. "And Eugene. Rosita. Martin's good friend's Tyreese and Oliver."

I snap my eyes at Tyreese, horrified. _**Wait, how did Gareth know we met Martin? **__Oh no. __**He didn't do it, did he? **_Tyreese's wincing, guilty for the deed he never carried out, realising today's the day it bites him on the ass.

"Carl." Gareth's voice interrupts my thoughts. ". . . Judith."

My eyes flicker to the infant, seeing her innocent expression stricken with fear. _"She can sense people's moods," _Beth used to say, and I silently beg her to stay quiet, reading her so easily that I can see the hysteria building, spilling. _Please, stay quiet, Judy? Please?_

"Rick and the rest walked out!" Gareth yells. He's at the altar now. They all are. "With _a lot_ of your guns." He's practically singing, his voice level and too confident. It's bone chilling. "Listen, we don't know where you all are but this isn't a big place. So why don't you stop this now before things get more painful than they need to be?"

I hear shuffling coming from two separate areas of the building, my whole body jolting when the door handle rattles right in front of us, but we'd locked it –the key now in Father Gabriel's pocket. I grip my Glock tighter, kissing the trigger, ready to take more than one life if it comes to it.

_Where are they? They should be here by now. _

The door finally stops shuddering. My palms are sweating. I can feel the beads running down my temples, clumping my hair, my silent, shaking breath over my shirt sleeves, hearing the supply door across the chapel rattling, too, while someone tries to unlock it. But we'd locked that, too, biding time, confusing them.

"Look," Gareth says sternly, his patience running dry, "you're behind one of these two doors and we have more than enough fire power to take down both. Can't imagine that's what you all want?"

I hear several guns clicking, and it makes my spine crawl with fear. _They'll be here,_ I tell myself. _They'll be here._

"How about the Priest?!" Gareth says, the cheer in his voice curdling my blood. "Father?" Gareth says, and Gabriel's shaking. "If you help us wrap this up we'll let you walk away from this. Just open the door and you can go. You can take the baby with you. What do you say?"

For the worst moment I think Gabriel's about to accept, but his hands stay entwined within his beads, his eyes shutting, refusing, or rather, forcing himself to stay put. It makes me want to double over, but I hear more shuffling, and someone steps in front of the door, and I see the flickering shadows in the gap on the floor. One more try. One more threat. I'll shoot at the shadow just like Rick told me to. But then, like I feared, the stress becomes too much for the overwhelmed infant, and suddenly, before anyone has any time to stop her. . .

Judith Grimes cries.  
Instantly and irrevocably giving away our whereabouts.

Carl almost collapses in his rush to get to her, panicking, hovering his hands over her as if considering to hold her mouth shut. He almost does, but instead he runs his thumb down her face, slowly and gently over and over again.

"I don't know, maybe we'll keep the kid," Gareth goads cruelly. "I'm starting to like this girl."

I stare wide eyed at the door, my Glock locked in place as it stares hungrily at its concealed target. But Gareth walks away, and I can almost hear the laugh in his breath.

"That's your last chance right now to tell us you're coming out." No answer, and Rosita's glare at the priest makes sure it stays that way.

"Are we done?"  
It's Martin.

I'm gritting my teeth, angry, though, not at Tyreese.

"Hit the hinges," Gareth tells his group, and if I weren't so terrified I would pay more attention to the slight quiver in his voice, as if he truly didn't want it all to turn out this way. But I'm touching the trigger, that split moment before pulling it. But then, just as they promised. . .

_**CHOOK.  
**__**CHOOK.**_

Two silenced bullets fire in the chapel, and with them, two individual Termite masses hit the floor outside with loud thumps and clatters. I perk up, horribly, breath hitching, hope and relief and grief exploding from the worst parts of me.

_They're here. It worked!_

"Put your guns on the floor," Rick growls.

"Rick, well fire right into that office, so you lower you gu- _GAH_!" Gareth's howl and the silenced bullet make me startle. I think for a moment he's been killed, but I'm proven wrong when I hear the cannibal's laboured breath and heaving whimpers.

"Put your guns on the floor an' _kneel_!"

"Do what he says!" Gareth commands his group, agonised.

The Termites drop their weapons, their panicked breathing and kneeling weight-shifts satisfying to my ears. A pool of blood grows under the door frame from the two who were shot outside, slowly leaking into the office towards us. It touches the end of my hiking boot, and I step back.

"Martin, theirs no choice here!" Gareth barks.

"Yeah, there is," Martin replies dryly.

"Wanna bet?" Abraham grumbles furiously, and almost immediately I hear Martin obeying, dropping his gun. Gareth splutters.

I stay rigid, unable to lower my hands despite knowing I don't need my gun anymore. _Never let your guard down._ Carl's watching me, but I don't look at him, devoting my complete focus to what's happening outside.

"No point in begging, right?" Gareth says, the agony obvious no matter how nonchalant he's acting. I think of that lady with the braided brown hair, the same agonised front she put up to. _They would have known each other. Like friends. . . Like family._

"No," is all Rick says.

"Still, you coulda killed us when you came in," Gareth rasps. "There had to be a reason for that?"

He's holding onto hope that Rick'll spare his life, maybe thinking he'll dish out the same mild punishment as Tyreese with Martin. But Gareth and his Termites don't know Rick Grimes. Neither do I, fully. But I know enough to realise that Rick won't take up such a wish. Not now. Not anymore.

"We didn't wanna waist the bullets," he answers, the factual tone chilling me.

"We used to help people. We _saved_ people," Gareth tries. "Things changed. They came in an' – _ahh_!"

I hate my brain. It thinks too much. It puts two and two together when doing so only makes things worse. It makes me think things and understand things that I don't want to think or understand, and so, I figure out what no one in here knows yet. That woman, in Terminus? She told Carol and I what the bandits did to them before they were _made_ to become cannibals, and again, I find myself trying not to feel sorry for the injured man as he whimpers in the chapel, knowing that he would've had to endure the horrors of what the woman spoke about, too.

"After that?" Gareth continues, grunting. "I know that you've been out there–but I can see it. You don't know what it is. . . to be _hungry._"

I grit my teeth, irritated that he'd be so ignorant to assume that. _**But he might be right. Have you ever been that hungry? **__Patrick and I were once so starved that we ate rotting fruit. So, yes. I know what hungry feels like.__** That may be, but that's not the same as eating people. Imagine being that hungry? Remember the dog? The mutt that almost tore your neck out for the packet of expired jerky you found? **__Yes, I remember. I had to put my machete through her heart.__** You were hungry back then, remember?**__ Yes. __**But you still didn't eat her. You still couldn't bring yourself to. **__Yes, but I was still hungry. I almost starved. But I chose not to eat her out of morality. Gareth and his Termites? They have no morality left. This world's taken it from them._

"You don't have to do this, we will walk away," Gareth offers, "and we will never have to cross path's again. I promise you."

"But you'll cross somebody's path?" Rick says, and his gun clicks. "You'd do this to anyone, right? Besides. . . I already made you a promise."

Then I hear the familiar noise of my machete being drawn, and realisation hits me over the face. But I don't move. I just listen to the screams. The repeated _shuck-shuck-shuck-shuck!_ as Rick murders his opponent, and it doesn't stop, not for a long time, and all we can do in here is listen to the bludgeon taking place just outside the door. Then Tyreese's rushing to the door.

"Ty, no!"

But he ignores me, grabbing Gabriel's collar, "Gimmie the key."

The priest quickly hands it over, and within moments the office door cracks open, the slashing and screaming and grunting amplifying, and I wince, hugging myself, watching Tyreese's whole posture tense up as he witnesses what's happening. My body is frozen, Glock hanging limply in my right hand, shaking violently in my grasp, and everything finally goes quiet, only the laboured breathing from our attacking group to be heard, and I try hard not to think that we were the lions in this all along. Not the zebras.

Tyreese moves away from the door, overwhelmed, horrified, and as he does I'm at the right angle to finally see it all. My mind convulses. It's a torn and severed Gareth, dead and sprawled across the red carpet of the chapel at Rick's feet, brain matter and eyeballs splattered across the chapel floor and benches. Martin, too, slumped on the floor with a hacked and mutilated throat, open and exposed and dripping blood. The two, dead, shot men lie at the foot of the door, the other dead Termites scattered over by the benches.

Michonne retrieves her katana from the female Termite's unmatched sheath, and she stares at the blade, bitterly greeting the old companion.

"It coulda been us," Rick utters.

Sasha sways, dazed and murderous, staring at Martin's blood on her hands, "Yeah," is all she manages, her voice faint and breathy.

Glenn and Tara are in the middle isle, Maggie stood beside them behind a bench, all watching, blank, terrorized, and Gabriel leaves the office, walking stiffly in his shock and outrage, staring around his blood and gut splattered church. Rick walks into the room, shortly followed by Abraham and Sasha. Abraham checks on Eugene and Rosita while Sasha sits silently with her brother and boyfriend, and I snap out of my stupor when Rick puts his hand on my shoulder, as I am closest to him, stood like a statue in the middle of the office, and he's glaring at me as comfortingly as his murderous state will allow. But I don't look directly at him, training my eyes on the dark and wet blood splatter on his white faux collar.

" Oliver...? "

It's only then that I realise my hands were clamped over my mouth, so I drop them, nod, confirming that I'm fine but not entirely sure I mean it.

He goes to his children. "Carl. You alright?"

I'm leaving the office, letting my legs move of their own accord, finding that they're desperate to leave the small cooped room. But the chapel isn't much better, so I settle with taking a seat on a bench that isn't covered in blood, watching Father Gabriel. He's staring at his home, arching his brow, his gaze shifting between Maggie, Tara, Glenn, Michonne and I. . .

"This is The Lord's house."

"No," Maggie mutters, "it's just four walls and a roof."

* * *

"Rick," I mutter. "Carol and Daryl. They're–"

"I know." He's pinching the top arch of his nose. A nervous habit that I've noticed Rick does when he's distressed. I almost apologise, but he talks: "Bob said they drove away. There's nothing we can do other than wait."

I can feel my voice break before it even happens. "They could be anywhere."

"Exactly," he agrees, stern and sympathetic, moving his hand to rest it on my shoulder, his brow arches. "But all we can do is wait for'm to come back."

"What if–"

"We can't afford to worry about that."

My breath hitches, but I nod, the trembling kind, "Sorry." I must sound like a child. _**You are a child.**_ "Y-yes, sir."

Rick pats my shoulder. "Go on now... Rest."

We'd moved the bodies to the wall nearest the doors, sort of stacked them on top of each other in an undignified pile. None of us suggest placing them any more graciously. We can't burn them yet. The flames'll attract walkers, and we can't just leave them outside because other walkers'll be attracted by their fresh bodies. Carl'd cleaned my machete for me earlier. He's sat on a bench now, and I take a seat beside him.

He doesn't talk, and for a while, neither do I. . .

"Judy alright?" is what I finally ask, vacantly, pulling my beanie off and rubbing the dried sweat on my hair.

Carl nods, flips his hand over on his knee, and I slide my hand into it, carefully weaving my fingers into his and holding on. It calms me, relaxing my shoulders. His, too, it seems, because he lets out a long breath and sinks into the bench, drooping his posture so that he can lean on me, and I rest my head on top of his. Our hands come up, and I press my lips to his skin, then pull our tangled limbs to my chest. He yawns, wiping his tired eyes. Soon I too begin to doze off, exhausted, hearing Carl's light snoring. But someone walks over to us.

"Here," they say, and I jolt awake. It's Father Gabriel. He holds out a blanket to me, another under his arm. "Thought you could use these for warmth."

"Thanks," I say, taking it from him, waking Carl in the process who grumbles irritably, but Gabriel holds out the other blanket, and, recollecting his manners, Carl sits up and takes the offer.

"Thank you, Gabriel."

"You're welcome," Gabriel says, somewhat forcing his smile. But then his eyes shift between us, contemplating something, looking like he's waiting for us to say something to him before he voices his thoughts; console him maybe, or explain the barbarity that's just taken place here, but his brow arches, like always, and he turns on his heel before he utters another syllable. Carl and I watch him disappear into his office, and at the same time we look back at each other, frowning.

"What d'you think that was about?" Carl asks me.

"I'm not sure," is my answer, but in the moment I say the last syllable, puberty decides to make itself present and my voice suddenly breaks, and my eyes widen, clearing my throat as nonchalantly as I can, but inevitably, Carl notices and it earns quite a broad smirk from him. But I ignore him and continue: "After tonight. I suppose he's got a lot on his mind."

Carl's too tired to bother continuing our conversation. So instead he lays his blanket on the cold, wooden floor and slides off the bench to lie down on it. "C'mere," he says quietly to me, holding his arm out. I would smile at him, but my whole body is heavy and waxy, like if I think too much I might break. So I practically stumble off the bench and flop down beside him, nestling myself against him, spooning. He helps to spread the second blanket over us both, and I sigh, comforted, his chest expanding and retracts against me, warm and real and alive. It's easy to remember that when you have its solid proof right there in his heartbeat.

He runs his thumb over my arm, and then we're facing each other, staying close, all of him against all of me. His eyelids droop, though, they flicker restlessly, his consciousness struggling to drift away after the stresses of the last few hours, so tired and traumatised that his mind refuses to let him settle.

_Poor Grimes... _

I've very much become aware that Carl is the sort of person to choose suffering in silence over asking for help. In all the time I've known him, I've never once heard him ask for it. He doesn't complain or easily let his emotions show, and because of that it's easy for people to simply assume that he's coping with it all on his own. But the truth is, he's only human. Albeit, an incredibly brave human. But human all the same. He's fighting it, but it's getting to him. The difference though?

He's not alone.

So I lift my hand, placing the pad of my thumb on his hairline in the centre of his forehead. Almost immediately his lips curve into that familiar soft smile of his, knowing what I'm doing even in his limbo, so, slowly, I run my thumb down his forehead, over the subtle curve of his nose to his top lip. Then again, and his eyes stop flickering, heartbeat slowing.

_Works on him, too. _

He's still wearing his hat, so I pull it off, leaving it to the side, letting my arm rest over his middle, and I run my thumb up his spine, hearing the sound skin on fabric, and I pull him close, holding him.

"Love you, Oliver."  
"I love you, too."

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**Notes**

I deliberately didn't specify _who _was the big or little spoon :)

Hope ya'll enjoyed! Please leave a little review on your way out to tell me of your thoughts :)

Favourite part(s)?  
Worst part(s)?  
Helpful criticism is truly appreciated :D

**Preview****: ****The next chapter will be another dream (mostly) chapter and their last fair wells to Bob :,( Buried troubles resurface, as, even after all this time, Oliver is still haunted by his past. The trauma of his brother and the girls and The Claimers still weighing heavily on his mind, and Carl truly learns how patient he is going to have to be for his broken boyfriend.**

Don't forget to check out **Stale M&amp;M's: The Stories of Oliver's Past**

As always,**  
**Happy reading xx :_)_


	39. Four Walls and a Roof, Part 3: Serenity

**inazumahunter **Like Oliver said, he knows how to handle a Stubborn Grimes.

**Guest **Thank you very much you awesome human being! I will be posting a new chapter every week on Saturday, and this story will be caught up to the show on the Saturday after the Part 2 Premier :)

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**Oliver's POV**

_It's soft and grassy and it lies beneath my cheek. I lie where I am, disorientated and confused. _

"_We let go of all of this and nobody dies."_

_My hands are bound, and I struggle to sit up, coaxed by Rick's voice, and I rub my cheeks on my shoulder, squinting, adjust to the blinding sunlight._

"_Everyone is alive right now. Everyone has made it this far."_

"_Rick?" I murmur. A fence is between us. Our old home behind him._

"_We've all done worse kinds o' things jus' to stay alive! But we can still come back. We're not too far gone."_

_Michonne's knelt a few feet beside me, her head low and her expression hard as a rock. Hershel's on her other side, his posture and expression identical to hers. My breath hitches, my mind throttling through every horrible emotion as the familiarity of all of this runs me over like the tank that'll soon tear through our home, again._

"_We get to come back." _

_I remember thing. Only, something's different. Rick. He's begging. But not just begging like he was last time. He's distraught. I try to figure out why, noticing that all eyes are on me right now, noticing that there's no Governor stood behind Hershel holding Michonne's katana to his neck, noticing that I can feel something cold, slithering against my nape, like the fang of a snake just before it strikes. Until finally, I understand all of it. . . _

_Why the Governor is nowhere to be seen._

_Why the katana isn't against Hershel's neck this time._

_Why all eyes are on me._

_The Governor. _

_He's behind me._

"_I know. We all. Can change."_

_Have you ever regretted something so much that you'd do anything to go back and fix it? Like, dropping your keys down a drain or forgetting to set your alarm or leaving your money on a bus? Well, right now is nothing like that. At all. It's worse. Much worse. I know that me being in this position will cost my life, and I'm scared. There's no denying it. But I also know that in me being in this position I'm going to save Hershel's life, or, at least hopefully._

_There's the conflict. _

_In one, single, horrible, moment, I actually wish it was Hershel here instead of me. In my place. Like he was. Isn't that terrible? Unforgivable? Evil? Well, I don't think so, not really. It's instinct. Human beings are programmed to do anything they can to survive. It takes a force more powerful than that of which you value your own life to be willing to give it up for someone else's. But then something takes over. That inhumanly more important thing that overpowers my instinct. _

_Family._

_Goddamn family._

_A simple agreement is made in my mind. A painful willingness to take this, accept it, almost welcome it, glad that I'll spare a member of my family the fate that was originally his own. So I do accept it, bitterly willing to allow my own sacrifice. It punches me in the heart so hard that I have to close my eyes, sweat trickling down my bleeding temple, my heartbeat hammering. So I wait for his whisper, the word poisoning me._

"_Liar."_

_There it is. The last word I hear before a cold sharp fang is brought down onto the crook of my neck._

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_A sharp intake of breath, and I'm back at home. Lorton, Virginia. Sat at the back door, my legs crossed, my socked toes touching the cool stone slabs of the back porch. My hand flies up to my neck, finding no wound or slice or drop of blood. Something smells, and I look around, searching with both my eyes and my nose for the source of the pleasant scent._

_Bread? _

_Fresh bread, I think... _

_It's in the kitchen. My back was against the cracked-open door, so I lean back to open it fully, then lazily, and rather indignantly, rolling backwards into the room._

"_Mom?" _

_But Mom isn't in here, though the smell remains, making me swallow the saliva in my mouth. I hear something bang upstairs and I freeze, glancing at the ceiling. My parent's bedroom up there. My parents are, too. But I look away, ignoring them like I had to for those five weeks my brother and I had to spend here. We never went upstairs. Not ever. We couldn't._

_Pushing my parents to the back of my mind, I focus on the oven, letting my stomach think for me as I crouch in front of it. My eyes widen, awed, staring at the cream-coloured fluffy bread rising in its dish._

"_Looks good, huh?"_

_Startling, I swivel around to the voice, expecting it to be my brother, a walker and about to tare me apart. But I stumble backwards in horror once I see who it really is, yelping loudly when the hot oven glass burns my arm. The irony odour of fresh blood fills my nose, blurring with the bread. It curdles my skin. _

_It's Gareth. _

_In the only form I've ever seen him in before._

_. . . Butchered. _

_His face is cut through the forehead, brain matter oozing out of the crevice. His limbs are hacked, gashes covering them, threatening to simply fall off. His torso is slashed, dissected, with rib cage and lung on full display through his shredded clothes. His innards hang like bloody vines from the carvings in his abdomen. But despite all this, he's undeterred by his slaughter._

"_Whoa, kid. It's white bread. It's not gonna eat you."_

"_Yeah, but _you_might," I glare at him, rigidly beside the oven. _

_Gareth scoffs, one eye hanging from its socket, choosing not to reply and instead strolling across my kitchen, swinging open the oven door as if he owns the place. I wince. When he moves. It makes this noise. Squelching, his blood dripping and smearing over the handle. Steam rises into the room, fogging the windows and the collection of metal kitchen knives that're in their stand on the counter top. I could grab one and kill the severed cannibal._

"_I wouldn't suggest that."._

_My breath hitches, adrenaline making my skin feel like led._

"_What I _do _suggest," he says. "I suggest you have some bread with me." He smiles, like it's the first thing he'd expect me to do. "C'mon. Out on the porch."_

_I shake my head, trembling._

_Gareth shrugs, "No point in begging, right?" _

_I watch as he pulls out the baking dish, not even using gloves as he sets it on the stove. He takes one of the knives. Instinctively, I leap from the floor and shove myself into the door that leads to the staircase. I hear my parents groan from upstairs, excited. But I ignore them._

"_Relax, kid," Gareth smirks, turning to the bread and cutting a few slices, staining the bread crimson. _

_He goes to the counter beside the fridge, pulling out two plates. He leaves one for me and takes a slice for himself. Then he leaves out the back door, taking a seat on the step. I fight with my stomach, ignoring it's screams at me to eat. Disgusted and starved all at once._

"_That..." Gareth says. "That is what hungry feels like." I glare at the back of his head, wanting to burn a hole through his split cranium for all the trouble and devastation he's caused._

_**You destroyed his family, too. His home. Remember?**_

_A pool of blood spreads over the porch step and behind him into my kitchen, which is already stained with his blood just about everywhere else now. But then, somehow, giving into my starvation, I grab a slice he cut for me, the blood running over the ends of my fingers. But I leave the plate, as if not taking that extra little bit from the Termite makes any difference. So I barge past him, scraping my hiking boot over his hacked shoulder by accident._

"_Jeeze, kid! Watch it." _

_When I look, I see that I'd caused a slab of his shoulder to peel off. It hangs from his arm, and after a moment he simply places it back, pressing it firmly down over the exposed bone before taking another bite of his bread._

_I march to the garden chair. Far enough away from him, but close enough to hear anything he has to say. So I sit, resisting the urge to stuff my face as I glare at the blood stained bread in my hand, hoping that after long enough Gareth will go away and leave me alone. But he doesn't leave, and when he finishes his bread slice, he just stares at the garden, his eyes flickering over the small view the fence gives of the tops of a stretch of hills; the in-extraordinary and minimal amount of countryside that Lorton has to offer. The view that has always meant nothing less than home to me. _

"_What do you want from me?" _

"_Nothing," Gareth answers simply, still not looking at me. "Eat your bread, Oliver. You're starving."_

"_No," I growl. "Why are you in my home, Gareth?"_

"_I'm not."_

_I frown, refusing to eat. "Why are you here?!"_

"_I'm not _here,_" __he retorts. "Neither are you, Oliver."_

_I stand up, throwing the bread to the grass, my tolerance of him hanging on mere threads, ready to snap. "What the hell are you talking abou-?"_

"_Look around you!" Gareth hisses, staring right back. "Look at where you are."_

_I become aware that the light has changed. What once was the sun, becomes artificial and hangs from a dull indoor flood-light that flickers every few moments. Then, without even noticing at first, the grass has turned to smooth lino. Grey walls materialise, decorated with posters saying generic things like, 'Anti-bullying' and 'Moving Forward in Your Education'._

_School._

_I look back to Gareth. But he isn't there. Though, I'm not alone in what I realise is the cafeteria. It's packed. With kids. I spin around on the spot, panicking, disorientated as blurs of young faces of all shapes and colours whir around me trying to get to where they want to go. _

"_Wait, stop a sec. Wait, please? Hey. Wait."_

_Recognition nags at my mind whenever I lock onto someone's face, thinking that I know them from somewhere, somehow, but nobody stops to talk or explain. Quite frankly I'm just relieved none of them are trying to rip my flesh off. So I follow the main bulk of crowd toward the canteen. Teenage and pre-teen faces babble on about things I hardly remember from before; myspace, classes, phone credit, cable TV, popular YouTubers, Lady Gaga's meat dress. Everything unimportant that seemed to make up the whole world before. I don't make conversation with anyone, my shyness making the simple task of just listening to them difficult, instead, I take a tray. It has little sections on it for the different types of food I'm guessing I'll be served. _

_I slide my empty try along the flat railing until I reach the lunch lady, who, when I glance at, I realise has a blank face. Not a blank expression though. No, I mean a literal, empty, blank face. Just smooth skin._

_No mouth.  
No nose.  
No eyes. _

_I almost leap away in horror, but I stare at her instead. Nobody else is afraid of her. She scoops up some mash potatoes and drops it onto my tray, splattering the white consistency over more than tree sections of it. Satisfied, she then uses prongs to impale a small slab of meat and drops it with the mash. _

_I'm still staring. _

_So is she._

_She even tilts her head to one side, like she's annoyed, waiting for me to move on, and after another moment she starts tapping her foot. I swallow. She waves me away. I startle, then do as I'm told._

"_Uh, th-thank you, ma'am."_

**Holyshitholyshitholyshitholyshit...**

"_Weird, huh?" _

_I jump, snapping my head around to see a young girl, maybe twelve or so with neck length light auburn hair. She's wearing a blue tee with a cartoon rainbow on it, and she smiles at me. Because luckily, she does have a face. A freckled one, too, with pale skin and warm hazel eyes. I smile, recognising her. She's the girl on the jigsaw puzzle at the Grove. _

"_Uh, I... Sorry, w-what did you say?" _

_She motions to the lunch lady. I dare a glance. The faceless woman looks at us and at the same time the girl and I look away nervously. __"__Weird, huh?" she repeats under her breath._

"_Yeah," I agree, skin crawling. "Why... uh, why is she..." _

"_Want some?" the girl asks, leaning forward to help herself to some strawberries. I nod, hungry. I never ate any of the bread Gareth made. In fact, I'd almost forgotten about that completely, and Hershel... and the Governor._

**Where are they anyway?**

_The girl grabs another handful of strawberries and tries to put them on a part of my tray that isn't splattered with mash potato. She fails miserably. _

"_Oh..."_

_I snicker._

"_Sorry."_

_I like this girl. _

"_It's fine," I grin. "I'm so hungry I don't even care."_

"_Good," she smiles at me, then motions her head to the tables. She picks up her tray, stocked with her own supply of sloppy mash potato, meat and strawberries, too, then says, "c'mon, you."_

_I follow her through the crowd and she chooses a table. She sits, and I sit beside her._

"_My name's Oliver, by the way. Oliver De Luca."_

"_Hello, Oliver. I'm Sophia Peletier."_

_My eyebrows fly up. Sophia's lifts as well, though, in curiosity rather than shock and amazement like me. _

"_You alright?"_

_I nod. "Yeah, It's just... Have you seen Carol? Y-your mom?"_

_Sophia's expression tenses a little, but she shakes it off and purses her lips, "Not for a while now. But don't worry. She'll be fine."_

_I scoop a little mash, trying to distract myself by considering to eat the gloopy meal, but I choose against it, grabbing a strawberry. However, I put it down when I notice Sophia narrowing her eyes at me, munching away at her own strawberry. She swallows before talking again. _

"_Carl and the others should be here soon."_

"_Really?" I ask, half choking on my breath. "When?"_

"_Mhm," Sophia hums. "Carl, Penelope and Patrick should be gettin' outa algebra about now. Mika, Lizzie, Molly, Luke an' Drippy are already getting their lunch, look, they're over there."_

_I look towards the canteen line, spotting the five children while they're served their mash, meat and fruit, purposely avoiding as much attention from the lunch lady, too. A wave of nostalgia smacks me across the face and my mouth falls open. Sophia waves her arms for them to join us. Molly and Luke lead, side by side in the only way I have even seen them, both alive and well. Mika follows, already starting on a few peaches, even with one of Carol's tiny braids in her hair. Lizzie is close on her tail, chewing her lip as she glances around the cafeteria at the other kids. But the fifth child. I haven't seen her since before the Turn. Nine years old, long strawberry blonde hair that is only just a shade softer than Sophia's. Fair freckly skin with several hundred moles. Her green eyes meet mine, and I smile widely at her._

_Penelope's little sister._

"_Drippy..." _

_I practically bounce in my seat. They all take a seat around the table, not nearly as elated as me, as if going to school and eating lunch together is a common occurrence.__** Maybe it is?**_

"_You okay?" Mika asks me, snapping me out of my high._

"_Y-yeah."_

"_You look a little out of it," Drippy says._

"_Yeah," I repeat._

_They giggle. _

"_Oliver, you're so weird," Mika says._

_I grin at her, picking up the strawberry I never ate._

"_Here they come," Sophia says to me, and again, I fail to satisfy my hunger for what must be the hundredth time today. Regardless, I look around._ _Quite literally, the three people my eyes fall upon are, with no doubt, my three favourite people in the whole world._

_Patrick De Luca.  
My brother, alive and smiling with that familiar under-bite that means nothing but family to me._

_Penelope Rostenkowski.  
My best friend, daydreaming in the same way that she always has._

_And Carl Grimes.  
My boyfriend, his eyes locked onto mine while he leads the way through tables towards us._

"_Sorry we took so long," Patrick says. _

"_You didn't," Luke reassures him, chewing some of the meat. _

_Carl quickly plants a kiss on the side of my forehead and takes a seat beside me, a silent greeting taking place between us with subtle glances, smiles and flickering eyebrows._

"_What were you all doing?" Lizzie asks curiously._

"_Carl was wooing over Mrs. Mueller again," Penelope __jokes, earning a grin from me at the mention of the third grade teacher Carl has told me he was so fond of – the same woman that he named his little sister after. At the time he told me about that, I had teased him a similar way that Penelope just did. _

"_I wasn't _wooing _over her," Carl grumbles._

"_He had to ask her to go over an algebra equation again," my brother explains._

"_I jus' can't get a handle on it. It's so annoying," Carl goes on, "I mean, when am I ever gonna need to know that crap anyway?"_

"_Oh, I don't know," Penelope starts, a grin plastered over her face, "maybe to get a descent job when you grow up?"_

"_Not much use now," I say, "what with the Turn __and all."_

_Suddenly, silence. _

_Awkward silence._

"_What?" Drippy asks me finally, she and everybody else either confused __or disturbed. My gaze snaps between them all, the buzzing chatter of the other kids surrounding our talk-less table not wavering. _

_They don't know about any of it._

"_Oliver," Carl says, leaning a little closer,__smirking, "how much pudding have you had?"_

"_None!" I scoff. "And I haven't eaten anything since all those canned tomatoes and squirrel, and I yacked __all up!"_

_Carl turns to the others. "He's crazy," he says._

_They all laugh._

"_I'm not crazy," I tell everyone. "I'm hungry."_

"_Then eat," Mika smiles, and for a moment I can't seem to look away from her. Because Mika hasn't been murdered by her sister, Lizzie hasn't been shot by Carol, Molly and Luke haven't been driven from their home and left alone since the attack, Patrick hasn't succumbed to a fatal virus, Sophia hasn't turned, Penelope and Drippy haven't been gone since the apocalypse started, and Carl is still beside me. So I smile and look away from Mika to pick up the piece of meat on my tray._

_Crying._

_I startle, spooked and interrupted as a baby's wail echoes through my ears. _

"_Judith?" _

_I can hear her in the canteen. She doesn't stop screaming, her wails shattering through the cafeteria. _

"_Why is Judy here?"_

"_We need her here for lunch," Carl tells me, his voice gentle._

"_What? Why?" I ask. Carl gazes at me for a long moment, enough time for me to glance around at the others to see very guilty expressions on their faces as they eat their meal. . ._

"_Oliver..." he says. "Judy is lunch."_

_Instinctively, I throw the small slab of meat out of my hand, sending it hurtling across the table and barely missing Molly's head. Carl doesn't say anything else. He just picks up some of the meat on his plate... the Judith on his plate... and throws it in his mouth, refusing to look at me._

"_NO!" I scream at him, hearing Judith become louder. It turns my blood to ice. "Don't eat her!"_

"_It's what it has to be," Patrick tells me. "This is only what it has to be, Oliver."_

"_No."_

"_Listen to what the world is telling you," Lizzie says, chewing on what looks like a tiny forearm._

"_Stop!"_

"_You're either the butcher," Penelope chimes._

"_No!"_

"_Or the cattle," Mika finishes._

"_NO! DON'T HURT HER!" I leap up from my chair as my terror engulfs me. "PLEASE? DON'T HURT JUDITH!"_

_I start running to the canteen, ignoring the yelling from my friends for me to go back to them and eat. _

"_Don't eat her! Don't eat her! Don't eat her!" _

_I run, crashing through __the cafeteria door, only I fall onto my face, hitting tiled floor that rings horrible bells of familiarity through my mind. There is a washing machine beside me, a counter on my other side, and a back door in front of me with a small silver key inside __it. . ._

_I'm not at school anymore._

_I'm not even back at home again._

_I'm in the utility room in that suburb house._

"_Claimed."_

_I drown in terror, hearing his horrifying voice behind me and my muscles scream as I push myself over onto my back to see him, to face my terroriser. But I'm so weak, sprawled across the floor, heaving my breath. Dan; the man who molested me, tried to rape me, now stood over me as he closes the door behind him. I try to scream for Carl, but no sound comes out. My mind reels, my body aches, and I'm bleeding from a deep cut on my lip. But I have to stop him. I have to stop him before he gets me._

"_P-please, don't..." I beg weakly, and my hand rises in a pitiful attempt to discourage him. "Don't."_

_But he does. _

"_Stop your squirmin'," is what he says, and he's inside of me, grunting, finishing what he started. I'm screaming. I'm terrified. I'm trying to fight him. . ._ _but I'm dying._

* * *

**Carl's POV**

There is a sudden elbow connecting to the centre of my sternum, and I yelp. Next comes a smack across my arm, then foot jutting out at my shin.

"Ow!" I gasp. "_Ack_!"

It's Oliver. He's crying.

When I grab him he writhes against me, his eyes scrunched shut and tears streaming.

"Don't!" he screams desperately. "No, stop!"

I try to hold him still so that he doesn't hurt himself, but he swings around, screams, and his hands thrash out at my chest, scratching and clawing at the fabric of my shirt.

"Stop! Oliver, it's _mhh_!"

His eyes snap open, one hand gripping my shirt and the other clenched so tightly around my jaw that I can hardly speak. But then he lets go, recognising me and realising what he is doing. I wince and rub my face, and we stare at each other for a long time, panting and pumped with adrenaline. Then the shaking begins. Violent shaking. It becomes so bad that Oliver can hardly sit up, letting out a choked sob as he pulls away and doubles over against the floor.

I stare at him, horrified. I reach into his pocket and try to hand him his inhaler for him but he shoves me away, whimpering, "No, no, no."

"Oliver, take your inh–"

"Stop, stop. Please."

"Oliver..."

He clamps his hands over his ears, and his sobs get so hysterical it wakes up everybody else.

"Okay," I whisper, sorry, so so sorry I can't even think of a word that means it as much. "Just breathe."

He curls up against the bench and cries his eyes out. Dad asks me what's wrong with him but all I can say is that he'd had a nightmare, but it's enough, because they all try to ignore him. I wish Carol was here. She would know what to do for him. After long enough I sit up and place my hand on Oliver's spine. I'm aware of the way his whole body tenses, but I still go ahead and rest my chin on his shoulder. For a moment I think I'm helping, but he shudders, and every part of him recoils away from me

"Please, don't touch me."

My breath hitches. He's so afraid that he can't even look at me. He can't even touch me. Or let me touch him.

"You're okay," I whisper as comfortingly as my shaking voice will allow. "It was jus' a bad dream, Oliver."

He glances over his shoulder at me, but he nods, mumbling an inaudible "yeah" to me. His eyes well with more tears, flickering their direction to something behind me. I follow his gaze, looking over the side of the bench to catch the worried glances from everyone who can see us before they realise they turn away. Tyreese is the last to avert his gaze, a knowing and sympathetic look in his eyes. I can only guess how many times he's seen Oliver wake up like this before. Over the time on the road since the Grove and the suburb, this morning probably doesn't graze the surface from the other night terror after maths. Even so, I look back to Oliver, pursing my lips as he glares down at his folded knees, his cheeks bright red in embarrassment. But he's calmed down now, at least. I push a smile onto my lips, hoping that it will be of some kind of help. He catches it, but he looks away and scrunches his eyes.

"I'm such a moron," he whispers. I shuffle forward, but remind myself not to reach out. Oliver looks grateful for it, if not guilty at the same time.

"Figured that out a long time ago," I joke softly.

He cracks a sad smirk, "Ass."

"You wanna talk about it?" I ask gently.

"I'm fine."

I frown, close to being offended that he thought I would fall for that. "You know, you're gettin' better at lying," I tell him quietly. "But not to me."

Realising that I'm not relenting, Oliver finally turns his body around to look at me. "Can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing."

"It's a good thing," I say. He's still trembling slightly. "Wanna tell me about your dream?"

Oliver makes a noise, refusing, but it trails a little, meaning that he might kind of want to share after all. "Well, it started out really bad. Then it was, just, bad. Then it was really good. But then it got really, really bad again." Oliver shakes his head, "Uh, sorry, um. I was at home, the Prison I mean... it was the day we were attacked... I was... switched... with Hershel."

I wince.

"Next thing I knew I was sat on my porch at home. _Home_ home. Lorton." He tries to remember, and when he does he motion his chin towards the pile of Termites that are still in the corner of the room. "Gareth was there," Oliver tells me. "He was making bread for me."

I would probably laugh... if I hadn't listened to the cannibal get disembowelled and mutilated by my father less than four hours ago, if his stiffening and decomposing body wasn't mere meters away.

"He got his blood on the bread and wanted me to eat it," Oliver tells me quietly, grimacing. "But I didn't... I almost did, but I didn't... Then I was in school. It was weird, Sophia was there getting lunch with me."

"Sophia?"

He nods.

"You never met her."

"It wasn't really Sophia. When I was at the Grove, before everything happened, found a jigsaw puzzle with a picture of some girl on the cover. Carol told me she looked like Sophia, so, I guess the girl in my dream was just the girl on the cover who called herself Sophia."

"Auburn hair?" I ask curiously.

"Neck-length," Oliver explains, "and, big, pretty, hazel eyes, and she had more freckles than you, all over her cheeks."

"That is weird. But, good weird," I say quietly.

Oliver looks troubled.

"And the bad part?"

He takes a moment to answer, averting his eyes and grimacing. "It wasn't just Sophia there. You were there. Patrick. Mika and Lizzie. Molly and Luke. Penelope and her sister... You were all there... having lunch." Oliver really winces now, so bad that it cuts through his sentence. "Judith... I could hear her crying. Screaming... She was the food."

I tense. Oliver watches me, like he's expecting me to think badly of him for creating such a terrible imaginary scenario, and for a second I have to remind myself not to.

"It was just a nightmare," I tell him. His expression relaxes; a reaction that I feel oddly privileged to be able to get from him, given his current mood. "Did it end then? Or, is there more?"

He shakes his head. I know he is lying. I think he knows I know, too. But I stay quiet, because I also know he doesn't want to share any more.

A moment passes.

"Carl?"

"Yeah."

"At Terminus – what happened to all of you?"

It's strange. Oliver's never asked me that before. Over the three days since Terminus, the whole event had sort of been forced behind us, where we were all willing to let it stay forever. Oliver has always been a patient person, ever since I had met him. It's a trait that I have realised can be incredibly useful at times, not to mention damn well attractive, too. But I guess with everything else that had happened last night, the urgency to know the full story has started to press on him. So I tell him, about getting there with Dad, Michonne and Daryl, how we went around the back to bury the weapons and try to see them before they saw us, about how they must've seen us anyway, about how we climbed the fence and snuck into the station, saw the old lady talking into the radio and a bunch of other people making those signs we'd been following.

Oliver pulls at his beanie, frowning. "All that time. Since those people came along... they were luring people in. Like pigs to slaughter."

"Yeah," I breathe, trying not to think of the hundreds of people who must have been slaughtered before we got here. "Wait, what people?"

"There was a lady at Terminus, almost crept up on me and Carol," Oliver explains dubiously. "She pinned Carol and almost killed her, but I held my gun to her... stopped her before she could. She told us what happened to them. How they were trying to save people at the start. But then, bad people got in. Raped, killed. But the Terminus people, they took it back."

"Did, uh," I hesitate. "Did she have brown hair, braided?"

Oliver nods.

"Mary," I say. "I met her. I think she was Gareth's mom. She served us... I mean, _almost_ served us."

Again, Oliver nods, only he's wincing. I put two and two together and realise that he and Carol didn't spare Mary. I'm about to tell him it wasn't his fault. That he and Carol only did what they had to do. But Oliver speaks before I get the chance.

"Then what happened?"

"They greeted us," I say. "Pretended. Even got us to put our weapons down to search us, then let us have 'em all back again. Gareth's brother, Alex, led us into the courtyard. That's where Mary served us. But Dad figured it out before we ate any. He saw Hershel's watch and Daryl's poncho and that orange duffel bag."

"So the others got there before you?"

"Yeah. They did. When Dad noticed, he grabbed Alex, held him at gun point. Things got bad real fast. Alex got shot by Mary and then everybody started shooting at everybody."

"I heard it," Oliver says suddenly. "We were on the tracks, a herd of walkers were coming right for us. The shots distracted them and sent them the other way."

I can't help the sudden arch of my eyebrows, relieved, learning that the terrifying experience I endured at Terminus may have just saved both my sister's and boyfriend's lives.

"Good timing," Oliver says, joking, but not.

I nod, still slightly stunned. But I shake it off and continue, "Well, we ran from the shots. The snipers on the roofs were aiming at our feet, herding us to this train freight."

"A," passes Oliver's lips.

"See that, too?"

He nods, not saying anything else. I look at the hoodie he's wearing over his flannel and recognise the way the zipper's been torn off. It makes me smile.

"They put us in there," I whisper, "that's how we found everyone else."

"Not exactly the family reunion I had in mind."

"No, it wasn't," I agree.

Oliver still looks troubled. "Is Carol back yet?" he asks after a moment. I pull myself up, using the bench seat. Pins and needles attack my right leg and when I look around the chapel, searching for Carol's short silver hair or the signature angel wings on the back of Daryl's waist coat, I see nothing. To stall, I twist my buzzing foot to subdue the pins and needles, but Oliver can tell that I can't see them.

He sighs.

I sit on the bench seat, and even though I try not to let it, it is fast dawning on me that Daryl and Carol being in danger could be a very real scenario now. They wouldn't have stayed out this long unless something had happened. Oliver sits on the bench with me. I don't make a big deal out of it when he takes my hand. Our gaze lifts to Gabriel's office when we hear it quietly swing open. Sasha peers out, the gut wrenching devastation painted over her soft features.

"He's asking for y'all," she tells us.

Dad stands up, cradling Judith –who he'd just finished changing. He glances at Olive and I and motions us to accompany him. Maggie, Glenn, Michonne and Tyreese make their way to the office, too.

"All... of you," she insists. So Abraham, Rosita, Eugene, Tara and Gabriel who were all hanging back, go inside, too.

Bob lays stiffly on the couch. His eyes are heavy and his smile hasn't gone away yet. I wonder if it ever will. Everyone says their individual goodbye's to him, knowing that his fever has increased and he most likely has minutes left. But, despite this knowledge, all that flows through the room is calmness.

Some strange beloved serenity.

The kind that I have only known to come by on a few occasions in my life. One occasion that stands out to me right now is the first time I was left alone with Judith. I was in my cell, barely a day since my mother had died. Hershel was off doing his own thing with Beth and Axel. Carol was missing. Daryl was searching for her. Glenn and Maggie were on watch. My father was in the Tombs, losing his mind. So I was sat on my cot, staring down at Judith, thinking how on earth she could have been sleeping so soundly when she had killed our mother... when we _both _had. For a moment, I was so angry that I was afraid of what I would do. But then. . .

She opened her eyes.

. . . she stared, right into me. Every part.

A single tear rolled down her cheek. Maybe it was just that she had something in her eye, or maybe she was just staring at me for too long without blinking, or maybe she somehow knew the pain I felt, shared it with me. But it didn't matter. I ached. I knew that none of it was really her fault, knowing that she was just as much a victim of it all as I was. So I held her, cried, letting all the sorrow until I was done, and for a while afterwards we just shared it together. That strange beloved serenity. Comforting each other with it until the pain was bearable again. Until we both managed to make room for it.

"You'll always be with us," Maggie tells Bob. "You're a part of us."

Oliver is still holding my hand, our shoulders touching now. Maggie kisses the back of Bob's hand. Losing a member of my group – family. It's terrible. It makes you feel a hundred pounds heavier. Dad rests his hand on the back of my neck, whispers for Oliver and I to leave the office with him.

"Rick," Bob murmurs, weak and tired. Dad is about to hand Judith over to me but Bob says, "No. Don't. Let her stay... I trust her." So Dad sits with him, Judith on his hip.

"I'll be right outside," Sasha tells her boyfriend. She leads Oliver and I out of the office; a hand on each of our napes, but her contact is more for her own sake than ours. When she does let go, Oliver and I kiss her cheek. She almost laughs, but she's crying. Oliver takes her hand again, and I take her other, and together we sit on the bench until Dad comes back out.

* * *

**Notes**

Fun fact: On _Talking Dead, _Melissa explained that the puzzle on the table was actually a picture of Sophia in her rainbow tee! :D

Sorry about this chapter. I realise it gets through literally, only about 20 seconds of an episode. Again, I just needed to get that dream out of my system x

Hope ya'll enjoyed!

Short (pettily long) explanation of the train wreck that was this chapter: 1.) Hershel was swapped with Oliver to show how truly willing he would be to sacrifice himself to save his family. 2.) Gareth... well, he was just there because the image of him so mutilated has obviously left quite a scar in Oliver's memory. 3.) I'm not really sure what the fuck was up with the lunch lady... I had a dream about someone like her the other day and I just had to put it in there... I watch too much Doctor Who. 4.) Sophia was there... but not there... like Oliver said, it was just the girl on the jigsaw saying she was called Sophia and Oliver's brain filled in the rest :) 5.) Mika, Lizzie, Luke, Molly, Penelope, Patrick and Drippy were there because he misses them so much. 6.) Judith being eaten... horrible, but it felt like it fitted what with the whole cannibalism monstrousness with The Termites. 7.) Dan being there was because Oliver is still scared from that entire experience.

Okay, I'm done x

I'd love to hear your thoughts xx

Favourite part(s)?  
Worst part(s)?  
Helpful criticism is truly appreciated :D

**Preview: The group loses their first family member since they reunited. The loss hits them hard, an is only made worse when six more of their group leave to start their journey to Washington D.C. Oliver finally confronts Tara about what happened at The Prison, and Carl's forgiveness it put to the test when he learns who she really is.**

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_


	40. Four Walls and a Rood, Part 4: Grimes

**Guest** I'm super glad that you did

**batgirl1290 **Hahaha, you made me laugh until I was sore! Fucking love you! Haha, I officially appoint you Oliver De Luca and Carl Grimes' bodyguard. You shall be given a pair of sheers (to do the chopping of any threatening manhoods...) and your rusty (I'm not sure if that was a typo) armor will be engraved with monkey symbols like your socks :D And because you are "sexy af" you shall get infinite strength and badassery! Hahahaha thanks again for your comment. You are amazing!

**Guest **Thank you thank you thank you! Haha, I actually looked up kawaii on urban dictionary... I've always heard PewDiePie say it in his vids hahah THANKS Adore you! And you are so kawaii, too! More fluff in the future. And in around ten chapters it might even begin to get lemony... did I use that term right? Ugh, whatever. I guess you'll read soon :)

**fanfictionfanboy **Ah, eep, thank you! Here it is :)

**inazumahunter **Thank you! Yeah, poor Oliver :)

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Bob died at 8:25AM. Sasha was with him. Oliver and I looked after Judith while Tyreese and Sasha consoled each other. Sasha cried too loud. It was awful. Judith was crying, too, so Oliver and I went outside with Tara. But I'm no idiot. I notice the tension between them, though as dismal as the situation already is... I know it isn't only because of Bob.

I'd stopped at the top of the steps with Judith, but Oliver and Tara go to the bottom, stopping opposite each other, tense and trying to act like they aren't. He is watching her, but her gaze shifts everywhere other than his face, from the floor to the church bus to the tree line, and even to me a few times. It makes me nervous. I know I should probably leave but I'm not sure I trust her enough to. Then, finally, they make eye contact. All three of us hold our breath without meaning to. Sasha's still crying.

"I'm sorry," seems to suddenly tumble out of Tara's lips, looking like her statement has caught her off guard as much as it has us. Oliver doesn't say anything but the colour drains from his face. Even Judith is silent. "I'm sorry," Tara says again, her voice shaking. Oliver grits his teeth. "I-I didn't know," she mutters, and takes a small step closer to him, wiping her hands on her jeans as if she is trying to wipe the remorse away. Oliver doesn't recoil and step away from her advance like I thought he would, he just keeps holding her eye contact.

"It's okay," he says. "I understand."

Tara shakes her head desperately. "No. No, it's not. You don't understand. I... I was there... at..."

"I know," Oliver interrupts her. "I know you were at the Prison. I remember you, Tara."

I'm frowning, suddenly understanding. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

"I remember you when that guy, Mitch, dragged me out of the camper van and put me in the truck," Oliver says, his expression calm now... accepting. "I remember you watching as he did the same with Michonne... and Hershel... I remember when Rick spoke to you through the fence... Pony Tails, he called you. And I remember how afraid you looked. How confused... and how much you looked like you didn't wanna be there, with him. The Governor."

I glare at the woman.

"You did what you did, and it happened. All of it," Oliver says. "But it's done now. It's over... I forgive you. We can start over now. Okay?"

Tara stares at him, wiping her eyes, nodding, but then she does something that takes both Oliver and I by surprise. She extends her fist towards him. For a moment, Oliver just stares at it, slightly confused, slightly amused, slightly incredulous. But Tara motions to her extremity again.

"Pound it."

Oliver does.

Satisfied, Tara smiles and glances at me. I'm still frowning at her. But who can blame me? I've just learned that this woman helped destroy my home. This woman was part of the reason that I believed my sister to be dead. This woman was part of the reason that I was driven into homelessness, to that suburb house, which eventually led to Oliver almost being raped, to me losing him. How can she expect me to forgive her?

I catch Oliver's eyes. He doesn't say or do anything but I can tell what he's thinking. He wants me to forgive her. I glare at him. Oliver doesn't look away, just raises his brow, silently telling me that I have no place to be angry at Tara if he isn't himself. So a long moment passes until a sigh passes my lips. I glare at the floor, knowing that he's right, that Tara was just as much a victim as all of us.

I lift my free arm, close my hand, and Tara reaches up and pounds my fist.

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Over in the graveyard, Tyreese goes and starts digging the graves. The plural is necessary, because it turns out that we aren't going to just burn the Termites. Rick decided to bury them along with Bob, figuring that after everything it was the right thing to do, because after all we are apparently still human, if we delve deep enough.

Sasha binds the last few lengths of string around the cross she had made for Bob, her brow furrowed and expression drained, with Bob's wrapped and covered body laying next to his half-dug grave. The other Termites are led a little way away, again, rested a lot less graciously than their living consciences would've probably preferred. But we allowed them the dignity to have a sheet covering their bodies so _whatthefuckevertheytriedtoeatus_.

I stand with Carl and Judith by the banister, trying to ignore the ache in my chest while the other's gather over by Abraham, listening as he speaks to Rick. He's handed a road map.

"Here's our route to D.C." Abraham says. "We'll stick to it as long as we're able. If not well... you got our destination. Once Eugene gets to the big brains left up there things're gonna bounce back. This group should be there for it... You should be there for it."

"They will be," Maggie confirms.

_Don't leave... please?_

"Yeah," Michonne backs her up, "we will."

"We will," Rick says.

Abraham nods and turns on his heel. "Let's go!"

Eugene and Rosita follow him to the bus. I watch everyone else say their fair wells. Worry for their safety makes me physically hurt in the pit of my stomach. I try to ignore it, hold it down, keep my expression relaxed.

Glenn comes over to me, at first shaking my hand, but the gesture automatically turns into a natural bear hug. He pats my back, muttering a "We'll see you all again," before pulling away and giving me a smile. His smiles are easy, for lack of a better word. You see it and believe it, always. Then Maggie is hugging me, almost immediately after Glenn. I wrap my arms around her middle, my chin on her shoulder and desperately holding back my tears. I must look like Judith when she thinks you've stolen her nose.

"Stay safe," I whisper.

I feel her nod into my shoulder. "You, too, sweetie," she says in her beautiful Southern Drawl, one that I hadn't ever taken the time to appreciate until now. "Look out for everybody."

We pull away, and she goes and says goodbye to Carl. I catch Tara's glance at me, offering her a smile as I walk over to her and envelope my arms around her shoulders. She's taken off guard at first, but I decide that I'm done passing up an opportunity to say goodbye to anyone anymore. So, after a moment, she hugs me back, tightly, meaningfully.

"Bye," I hear Maggie say to Carl, only he doesn't say it back, just, "See you soon, Maggie."

Tara steps away and boards the bus with the others.

Finding Carl's hand, I stand with him on the steps, maintaining my pained smile as the bus engine rumbles to life, and as the vehicle pulls out of the lot, I keep my eyes on it for as long as possible. Even long after the tail lights have disappeared through the tree line and down the leaf littered road, my eyes only leave their position when I feel Carl finally pull be back towards the Church.

"I'm gonna see if your dad and Ty need any help."

"I'll be inside," Carl says, letting go of me and cooing to Judith as he goes inside.

The walk to the graveyard is longer than I thought, heavier too, somehow. With the loss of Bob, the memories of the Termites and the departure of six more of our group all in one morning is weighing immensely on all of us.

"Oliver," Rick says, wiping the sweat from his brow and leaning on his shovel, stood in a grave that he has only just started. "Y'alright?"

"Wondering if you wanted a hand?"

He nods, motioning to a spare shovel on the fence. I grab it and go to work, though the three of us dig for only a few moments before Rick speaks again.

"I never asked how it was for you both. Gettin'a Terminus."

I stop digging, my eyes automatically locking on to Tyreese.

"It killed me."

Over those six days after the Grove. I had wondered if there was something more, something deeper in Tyreese's past that had made the blow of Mika and Lizzie's death so unbearably terrible for him. It was terrible for all of us. So terrible. For me it was like losing siblings, as bad as it was loosing Patrick, only worse too. Carol; it brought back her terrors of her own daughter, and she dealt with it by forcing herself to stay strong, and, evident by her leaving, she's still hurting. But Tyreese? It's almost like that with him, too. Over and over again I have wondered if Tyreese once had a daughter or son of his own. Yes, he and Sasha had never mentioned anything about a child being in his life, but I also know that Tyreese never had much to do with Judith at the Prison, though in the time I was with them I don't ever remember Carol having to teach him anything about caring for her. Granted, I did miss four days before they found me, and the teaching could have easily taken place during then, but even so Tyreese being a father isn't impossible.

"No it didn't," Rick replies to him. He doesn't press, even though I can tell he wants to. So the three of us go back to digging. I won't ever ask Tyreese if he had a child. His refusal to talk about the girls is enough to know that he wouldn't stand talking about his own blood.

* * *

Finally, six more graves are dug and Rick tells me I can go. I'm panting and I need my inhaler, so I wipe the sweat from my forehead and upper lip and climb out of the grave.

"Oliver," Rick says. He's holding out the road map Abraham gave him. "Take it in, would you?"

I take the paper and go back inside to find Carl again, only I don't get to the building before I almost trip over my feet. Even when I'm not startling anymore, I'm still staring.

It's on the side of the building.

Written in blood.

Bob's blood.

'A'

My breath hitches, but I keep moving, staring as I go. It's the same letter that was on all those doors and the freight at Terminus. It's their mark. They're leaving it everywhere we go like a brand on a cow.

"_You're either the butcher," Mary said, "or the cattle."_

I shake my head clear and go inside. Carl Grimes is sat at the bench we slept under. He's put Judith in her basket and is feeding her her formula. Instantly, my heart beat begins to settle and my shoulders relax, and I take a seat behind him, staring at the folded road map and twirling it in my hand.

_**The route is mapped on it now. **__  
I wonder if it'll go through Lorton? _

I catch Carl's glance at me, then look at my beanie. Carl grabs it from behind Judith's basket for me, multitasking, because he's also still feeding Judith – which still manages to impress me. I put it on, my beanie, and I melt into its familiar comfort and take my inhaler. My focus returns to the road map. Taking a deep breath, I unfold it. The paper claps and pops as I unravel its secrets, and I read the message Abraham wrote.

"What's it say?" Carl asks.

"Oh, um, Mr. Ford, he wrote: _'Sorry, I was an asshole. Come to Washington. The new world's gonna need Rick Grimes.'. _He must mean it 'cause he underlined your dad's name... _several _times."

Carl smiles. I look back to the map and follow the thin red line that tracks the route we're intended to follow to D.C. to find everybody, and sure enough, around twenty or so miles before it stops at D.C. it goes right through Lorton.

"Thinkin' about home?"

Carl's voice pulls me out of my thoughts. My head snaps up to him, trying to look as innocent as possible, but I give up, knowing full well that to try and keep anything from him is just about as effective as telling a walker to eat vegetables.

"Yeah," I say, "but, it's no biggie."

Carl's eyebrows jump, unconvinced, "Your parents?"

I almost roll my eyes, convincing myself for a moment that it isn't true, but I realise that my parents are still why I am so fixated on my home town. "We'll be going right through," I say, still unwilling to admit anything. "Home is about ten minutes off of the highway."

Carl gets an idea. I see it, but he hesitates.

"What?" I ask.

"Well, if we'll be going through there anyway, and you say they'll still be there..."

He stops talking, expecting me to catch on to what he is talking about, and even though I think I have, I stay quiet, wanting to hear his proposal before giving my thoughts on it.

"Would you wanna go back, Oliver? Back home to put your parents down?"

_Do I want to? __**Yes.**__ Why? __**Closure... Like Carl says, Mom and Dad are still there.**__ Walkers. __**You can't leave them like that.**_

"Yes."

He smiles in approval, and his free hand comes up to rest it on my shoulder. I dip my head and suddenly yearn for the relief that finally putting my parents down could offer.

"I can't make any promises though," Carl says rationally.

I hold my breath, nod, reminding myself to be realistic. _No, _I want to think. _Fuck realism, _but, _**Fine, okay. I'm listening.**_

"We can only do it if the circumstances go our way," Carl says. "But even if it does, we'll need permission. But we will do it... One day."

Those words again.

"One day," I whisper, like with travelling to the Grand Canyon, one day, neither making a promise or condemning it, just letting the idea of it float in the air, but it's enough.

* * *

Minimal words are exchanged between our remaining group for the rest of the that consisted of more than a few syllables at a time. Mourning has definitely embedded itself into our unit. Even though we'd known him only a month, the loss of Bob has hit everybody a lot harder than I thought it would. Don't get me wrong though, I mean this not in a way that I thought Bob was of no importance. I just had never had much time to know him. I respected him, and we were on good terms. I just wasn't expecting to feel so upset by his death as I am, like some deep sorrow that looms over everything I seem to do or say. But that is what losing your family does to you. It didn't matter that none of us were related to the man or that we knew him just a month, as soon as he walked through our gates, greeted our people, answered Rick's three questions that week before the day my brother died, Bob Stookey has been a part of the family.

"I'm gonna put 'er down," Carl announces quietly.

Judith was sleeping a few hours ago but Rick pointed out that if she slept for too long during the day she wouldn't be tired enough to sleep at night, and none of us want a crying Judith all night, so Carl and I have been working hard to keep Little Ass Kicker awake all day, which is what we were doing before, but after long enough Judy became antsy enough that we finally let her sleep again, and Carl and I leant against the side of the benches muttering to each other without actually saying a word, trying ourselves to stay awake.

But it is dark now, so he carefully puts the baby into her basket, supporting her head because the poor infant is barely able to hold it up herself in her tiredness. Pretty much immediately she is out like a light. Regardless, Carl tucks her in like the big brother he is so good at being and runs his thumb down her nose. He kisses her forehead, then comes back over to me. Without a word he lies down, our backs facing each other with a few inches between, and once he's put his hat above him he takes my hand and lets them hand between us for a second, then lets go to let us sleep. I know that he won't. I know that _I _won't. Because despite being exhausted, trauma doesn't like sleep, and no matter how much we try not to think about it trauma has been something all of us have had to cope with in the last few days... weeks. But on the sole hope that the other might sleep neither of us speak or move as not to disturb the other. It's useless, and possibly even a little comical, but I appreciate the mutual gesture all the same.

Gabriel walks past and heads out of the front doors, I watch him under the bench, and then I close my eyes and listen, making out him quietly greeting Michonne outside. She's been out on watch for a few hours now. I can't hear them anymore when the doors close.

I roll over onto my back, rest my head on my arm, gazing with heavy restless eyes up at the ceiling. I listening to what everyone is doing, which I soon realise is trying to rest but unable to after the horrors of everything we have been through, too. I saw Sasha go into Gabriel's office a while back, and one look under the bench tells me she's still in there. Tyreese is sat outside, waiting on her.

Scanning under the bench more, I see Rick's boots. He's sitting at a bench nearest the end of the chapel. I watch him, pretending I can begin to guess at what he's thinking. Maybe he's quietly going over everything that we have all been through these past twenty-four hours. Maybe he's working it all out in his head in that Grimesey way, figuring out what we need to do next, how long we'll wait for Daryl and Carol, thinking about everything else that I don't want to think about right now.

I look at Carl. His head rests on his arm, causing his hand to stick out behind him towards me, ruffling his long, dirty hair against his arm.

His name hovers at the end of my tongue, but I stay quiet. Even so, by chance, he rolls over to glance at me. He gives me a knowing look with the same focussed expression he'd inherited, and for a moment all I can see is Rick.

"Hey, man."

"Hey," he whispers. "Can't sleep, either?"

I shake my head, about to speak. But I realise that I don't really need to.

We watch each other for a moment, like, really watch. Is that strange? Well, if it is, then it doesn't feel strange. All I feel is comfortable, safe. His eyes are soft and tired and blue and wet. The skin under them has darkened over the weeks since the Prison, much like mine, I guess. Bags. Tired and worn. Is it normal for fourteen and fifteen year old boys to get bags under their eyes big enough to hold supplies? After seeing more horrors than anyone should see in their whole life time, I'd say we've earned them.

I'm not even sure when I'd started stroking his cheek, though I don't question it once I do notice. I trail the ends of my fingers over his forehead, tracing his eyebrows, his lips, the dark circles under his eyes, gently and carefully. He closes his eyes when my fingers linger against his lids, and when I remove my hand, Carl doesn't open his eyes again, instead he buries his face into my chest. His fists close into my shirt, almost possessively. I smirk, his gesture kind of reminding me about one of those baby chimpanzees holding onto their mother's torso, which I also read about in the same African Wildlife book with the zebras. I don't think I'll tell him that though. I can't imagine it's ever a compliment to be compared to a monkey. I wrap my arms around him and breathe into the top of his head. He smells of himself, odd as that sounds. Himself and also dirt and sweat and... formula, which is kind of gross and so I just focus more on the _himself _part.

Gabriel comes back into the chapel again. I don't look around to him, not really thinking anything of his entrance for almost complete lack of interest in the man all together, especially after his confession. But I realise that not everyone else has had the same response. Then when Carl sits up and stares at him I know something's up. Everyone is staring at the man as well.

"Sorry," Gabriel apologises, his brow arching in the same fearful way it always does, pinning his back against the wooden doors.

"What is it?" Rick asks. Gabriel throws his thumb over his shoulder and shrugs, trying to pretend that he isn't completely scared out of his wits.

"Probably nothing," he says, but when we don't relent with our staring he continues. "Uh, we just, h-heard something. Uh, Michonne's got it though."

Gabriel trails off when Rick doesn't hesitate to assist her. I'm up before the door closes, propping myself into the gap. Rick disappears into the tree line. It's too dark to see but I can hear him talking, barely; his voice muffled by the rustling of the tees and the warm Winter night's breeze. Whoever he's with comes back with him, and my hand grips my Glock just in case.

"What is it?" Tyreese asks, poking his head out above me.

I see them.

My shoulders relax.

Rick and Michonne emerge from the tree line. They look relieved, also something else that makes my heart choke on its beats. Daryl follows. I smile so wide that my cheeks almost feel caught off guard, half fighting with myself not to run up and hug him. I think its pretty damn safe to say that the Dixon would definitely _not_ appreciate that. Daryl doesn't smile back, instead he averts his eyes from me, like he's telling me to stop, telling me he's sorry. He glances behind him for the fourth person I can hear. I know who it is, even if I fail to pick up her precise and soft footsteps, instead hearing rougher and uneven footsteps.

_Maybe she hurt herself.  
__**Doesn't matter, she's here.  
**__Yeah.  
__**Everything'll feel better again.**_

_Come on, Carol..._

My expression drops, and my stomach throws itself into my toes.

The fourth person is not Miss Peletier.

He is a stranger.

He moves into the moonlight.

His face is dark and bruised and unfamiliar.

"Carol?"

"She's not here. Come. Inside. We got things to do."

* * *

**Notes**

I just had to have Oliver and Carl get a fist pump from Tara. It has literally been a fantasy of mine since I started this fanfiction hahaha

**Preview: The return of Daryl is an immense relief to everyone, but how will Oliver react now that Carol has not returned with him, and furthermore... who is this dude taking her place!? Also, Oliver and Carl become aware of just how cruel their strange new world is when they are forced to make a difficult decision, putting more strain on their relationship than ever before.**

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_


	41. Be Here With Me

**Bane 2014 **I realise that a lot of you want there to be smut in this story, but the truth is, it would be out of character for them to go right ahead and do that stuff right now. The circumstances aren't the best, and they aren't particularly going to fool around with everyone in such a close perimeter. Prying eyes are said to be not the most romantic thing in the world. But eventually (soon) the boys will get there time alone together, and it will be worth the wait (I hope) :) But, to me, the story is more important than their sex life right now so I am just keeping the story as legit and believable and as entertaining as I can. I dunno if I'm doing it right but w/e I'm having fun x)

**The Flash Fanatic **Aww, thank you! Glad you are enjoying it! Means so fucking much!

**inazumahunter **Thank you xx I will see what I can scribble up x

* * *

"**The Quiet" by Troye Sivan**

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"Carol," passes my lips on a breath again, and I try to leap down and look for her but Daryl has grabbed around my middle and pulled me into the building. Dread crawls over my skin like diseased cockroaches. I meet Daryl's eyes; he looks furious, but not at me. Then I look at Rick; he looks overwhelmed.

_She's not far...  
just getting her things,  
tying her shoelaces..._

_Right?_

_**I... I don't think so, man.**_

My body tenses, hands gripping the back of a bench. Every word spoken passes through my ears and racks inside of my head like marbles.

"What happened to you two out there?" Rick asks Daryl dryly.

"Saw a car out by the road last night. Carol an' I followed it."

"Why?"

I flinch.

"Damn it, Daryl," Rick goes on. "Things got bad here. We needed you."

"They took Beth."

Everyone startles, our hearts leaping to our throats.

". . . What?" Rick asks.

"The car that kidnapped her back 'fore I saw y'all the night 'fore Terminus. It had a white cross in the back window," Daryl explains. "Car we saw las' night was the same one." As he speaks, I'm grimacing, trying to put the jigsaw puzzle together in my head. _I had no idea Daryl got out of The Prison with Beth. How many more of my family got out that I don't know about? _

"And she's still alive?" I pipe up, finally finding my voice again. It still breaks.

Daryl nods, about to answer verbally but the stranger cuts him off.

"Yeah."

His face is long and bony, his body lanky and tall. He looks close to my age, but seems older, eighteen maybe. His skin is dark and bruised, even more so now that he's in the light, and his hair is short and curly and black. He wears khaki jeans, trainers, odd socks and a dark blue zip up jacket with red shoulders and a bright yellow flannel shirt underneath, everything a size too small, maybe, like if he reaches out his whole arm might poke out from the sleeves.

"I was with her at Grady for a little while. She helped me escape. If it weren't for her I'd still be inside," he tells me, as if he expects me to know what he is talking about. He notices my confusion (and irritation) and is about to elaborate, but then Sasha talks.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Noah," he answers her, like he might offer his hand to shake but goes against at the last moment when she stares at him. Her brow is creased and her dark brown lips are held tight against her teeth. Noah doesn't know this, but this is about as friendly as her expression is going to get in the circumstance.

"I'm sorry," Father Gabriel says timidly, "who is Beth?"

"She was in our group," Tyreese tells him. "Lived with us at the Prison. Good little lady." I watch him trail. That was what he used to call them, too. Tyreese looks up, smiles, _forgetting. . . _"A friend."

Rick grits his teeth, mulling over all of the questions he needs to ask. He turns to Daryl. "Where is she?"

"And Carol, why isn't she here?" I can't help but ask.

"Gr-"

"We were tryina get away from the officers back in Atlanta," again, Noah interrupts. "But Carol got out of the building before us. Ran out into the road'n got hit."

"She got shot!" Rick barks.

I'm not sure what I do but it makes Noah widen his eyes at me. He's shaking his head, waving his arms.

"_No_-no-no," he says reassuringly, and for a moment the relief is so strong I'm scared Ill pass out. . . "_N__o._ She wasn't shot. She jus' got hit by a car."

Again, I don't know what I do, but this time Noah actually steps back from us.

"I mean. I-I don't think she's dead yet," he tries again, fumbling, horrifically. "They took her, so she'll be gettin' cared for and then she'll work for'm."

I'm just about ready to slug this idiot if he doesn't learn how to explain himself any better.

"Noah, shut up," Daryl scolds dryly.

"Right," he obeys.

"Carol," Daryl addresses all of us again, though, lingering his gaze on me for a moment longer. I relaz my shoulders, open my hands, breath. "She's at Grady Memorial Hospital in Atlan'a. She got pretty bruised up a few hours 'fore – we hadda sit out a truck fall from a bridge. And she weren't in good shape when the car hit her either. But Noah, here, says the Doc at the hospital'll do his bes' to help her. Said tha's what he did for Beth when she bashed up her wrist. All we gotta do is get in there'n get'm both out."

_**Since when has anything ever been that simple?**_

We're all nodding, doing well to keep up after all of this information being thrown at our faces. I'm pretty sure it's left bruises on mine.

"What's it like down there?" Rick asks. "Atlanta."

Daryl's eyes shift, giving a small shrug. "Not much better'n we left it. Less walkers on the streets – pretty brutal in mos' places."

It's then that he looks around the room, searching for the rest of our group. He had done this before but he'd kept the questions to himself until the rest of us had been satisfied with our own getting answered. But I'd seen how his expression tensed, how he took a moment to notice the dry blood stains, the devastation that must've still been plastered over all our expressions. He looks at us now, then Rick, squinting. . .

"What happened here?"

Rick holds his gaze with equal intensity, "Gareth. Him and five others from Terminus. You were right, they followed us. We lost Bob."

Sasha does her best to bottle her sorrow, but she has to retreat back into the office again, followed by Tyreese.

"Termites. Y'all killed them?"

Rick only nods, glancing at his boots. I watch last night play through his memory like it has been all day.

"Glenn? Maggie? The rest? They dead, too?"

"No," Rick answers. "They left for Washington this morning while we stayed and waited for you."

Daryl doesn't say anything.

"Alright," Rick says to us, "we'll make a plan." He turns to Noah. "Carol'n Beth: you're sure they're at this, _Grady_?"

Noah nods, "Yeah."

"Alright, we'll leave in the mornin'," Rick nods. I wonder if he's acting more confident than reality, or if he really feels it. "Noah, you can help us get through to find them without bein' seen. You know their schedule – their routine, right?"

"I've been livin' almost a year under it. Know it like the back of my hand."

Rick nods gratefully, narrowing his eyes to examine the youth, sizing him up. "Okay," he says, satisfied, alsolike he's warning him. "We're gonna need you to keep that knowledge. Our lives depend on it."

Noah's expression drops at Rick's words for a moment, suddenly realising the extent of his responsibility. He nods, swallows, grins weakly. "Gocha."

_Yeah, if you don't you're dead.  
**Hey.  
**What?  
**You don't have to be a bully.**_

I sigh. Noah catches it and nods to me, and after only a few seconds' hesitation I nod back. Well, I nod at the floor. But it's something.

**Carl's POV**

Dad, Daryl, Michonne and Noah make a plan. Sasha volunteers to go. Tyreese, too. But it's Oliver who steps in first, putting his opinion into the plan and helping to come up with something that's actually pretty freezable. Though, after a moment it became obvious that he isn't merely giving his opinion. . .

"Oliver," Dad warns when he realises.

"I owe it to her."

"I do, too, but I'm not-"

"You can't stop me, Rick," Oliver tells him gently, also slightly terrified, and so adding a quick, "sorry," for good measure. "I mean, I can help. I'm more use to you our there and you know it."

My expression tenses, expecting and waiting for Dad to reprimand him, and for a moment he looks angry that Oliver is bold enough to defy him. But he nods. "That is true."

My jaw locks.

"He'd be a reliable asset," Michonne says, "what with the skills he's got already."

I stare at her, stunned.

"He's good, Rick. I've seen it," Tyreese says.

"I don't want you coming," Dad says, "it's dangerous."

I'm relieved, but then he keeps talking. . .

"But I'm not your father, I realise that, no matter how much I act like it. So you'll come, but you'll be part of our team. You'll have to stay alert. Do exactly what we say no exceptions."

"Yessir."

"No one gets left behind," Dad says, pointing. "You gotta make sure you keep it that way."

"Yes, sir," Oliver repeats, more carefully this time.

_No!_

"Good," Dad says.

I thought I'd spoken but my mouth is hanging open in outrage. I stutter. "W-well if Oliver's going then s–"

"No," Dad growls at me, quietly but sternly. "Not you."

"Dad."

"_No_! End of discussion, Carl."

I look to Oliver, desperate for him to back out of this for me, only for him to avert his eyes and glare down to the floor until I have to look away because I'm fairly sure I just got hit by a train. I should order Oliver stays here, too, that having him go along will only make things more difficult. But I know it isn't true. So I don't say anything. I don't pretend that I have any real choice in how it is that Oliver lives his life. I just sit back, defeated, infuriated, and it isn't until the plan is set and everyone is tense and worried but ready for what the morning has to bring that I finally get a word in on it all.

"Oliver."

Everyone is in the chapel going about their own business now. Tyreese silently consoling his sister, Dad talking to Noah a little more, Judith sleeping in her basket, Daryl talking with Michonne outside on watch, and Gabriel... well, preying I guess. Oliver looks up at me. My voice and expression is curt, and I ignore the way Dad and Michonne snap their gaze up to me.

"Help me in here with the supplies," I instruct flatly. By Oliver's tense expression he knows supplies aren't what I need him for. I close the supply room door behind us, sending the room into complete darkness. "Lamp," I say, "in the corner."

"Got it."

A moment later the small room illuminates from Gabriel's solar lamp. It's dim, but enough. Together, we order the weapons first, knelt on the floor and sorting through the array of weapons, working in silence for a long time before _t__he __e__lephant __i__n __t__he __r__oom_ demands to be recognised.

"Are you mad at me?" Oliver asks, placing a hunting knife into a small, white, roll up knife case. It's the same knife we took from the Claimers. The guy who tried to rape us.

"No," I answer, not looking at him, pushing another switch blade into the case. "Not at you."

"Then who?"

"Nobody," I grumble, "just..." _at everything. At you, obviously, but not at you, idiot. Goddamit, you asshole. You bastard, I love you._

The De Luca studies me, and I try to keep looking at him but in the end I just keep stocking.

"Tomorrow," he says finally, "we'll be fine."

I push a few machetes into the case. "Great."

"We will," Oliver insists. "I'm coming back, Carl. We all are."

Anger and grief bubbles in my veins and I start moving roughly and aggressively, folding the case over on itself with a yank and shoving it to one side. I turn and glare at him. "Shut up."

He grimaces, then sighs, waiting until I deflate.

"Sorry..."

He shrugs silently.

"It's just, you don't _know_ that you'll come back," I explain, trying hard not to let my voice crack or rise. "Oliver, you don't. For all we know we could all die tomorrow. For all we know you could–" I stop, tears threatening to spill as a painful lump forms in my throat. "You could."

Oliver faces me, sitting on his knees and leaning forward to rest on his hands. I see the skin on his wrists and fingertips fold and go white and red under the pressure. "We don't know anything, Carl," he says softly. "Yes. For all we know we could all die tomorrow. I know that. We've seen that happen. But I have to do this. I owe my life to Carol. I owe Judith's and all of your lives to her, too. If I don't do this I'll never be able to forgive myself for letting her go."

"You didn't _let her go_," I snap bitterly, gripping a can of raveoli in my hand. "She killed Karen and David. She _chose_ to leave you!"

Oliver stares for a long time, patiently waiting for me to calm down without saying anything even though his eyes well. It makes me guilty. It makes me afraid. It makes me _angry_; how patient he is. Even after what I'd just said he isn't fighting back, he's just waiting. I want him to answer back to me – give his opinion – argue his case – fucking _lash out_ at me even. Just anything!

"_Speak_," I tell him.

He doesn't.

I try not to. I _really_ try. But I crack, right in two, suddenly flinging the ravioli can into the pile of supplies behind him. He ducks out of its way, flinching at the _crash!_es and the _clatter!_s as they all tumble across the floor at his feet and knees. But I ignore the noise. I just shout at him. . .

"Oliver! Speak!" I'm staring wide eyed, infuriated. . . "SPEAK!"

Nothing.

"Don't you even care?"

I remember the argument between my parents that morning. Mom was yelling: "_Speak,_ Rick! Speak! SPEAK!" I was sat at the table trying to ignore them while I ate my cereal. Dad just waited for her to calm down, to settle. But she didn't. "Sometimes I wonder if you even care about us at all?!"

Dad left for work after that, defeated and hurt and betrayed.

That was the day he got shot.

My heart races.

Oliver's eyes shift between mine with an intensity that absolutely terrifies me. Want to tell him to go to hell. To leave just like Dad did and get himself hurt, too.

"_Don't do it. Don't let the world spoil you."_

But we aren't my parents. Unlike my mother to my father, I know I don't really doubt the care Oliver feels for me, and in truth, I know that Mom didn't either.

"I... I'm sorry," I croak.

I feel Oliver's eyes locked onto me, his ability to calm me without even opening his mouth working again. So I soften my face and let the fake walls crumble down, and with them, the tears, and unlike my father all those years ago, Oliver finds his voice again. . .

"Sometimes people do things because they feel like they have no choice."

"Oliver, I can't lose you again."

Oliver smiles, the desperate smile that looks closer to crying. "You won't, Carl. I'm not gonna let that happen," he tells me. "I'm not gonna leave you... Promise."

"You shouldn't make promises you don't know you can keep."

"I know."

He touches my hand, thumb stroking across the back of my wrist. I inhale, and a shaky, worried smile breaks over my lips. I wipe my cheek when more tears fall, rushing, feeling childish and naive but craving the surety that Oliver seems to have all the same, like it could may all be true, given his reputation. Worry mulls over the reassurance again anyway. Oliver has only just managed to live this long mostly out of coincidence and dumb luck, and the terrible truth is that not everything can always go in his favour. One day his luck will run out.

I'm shaking.

"Hey," he whispers.

My hand comes up to his neck and I pull him closer, suddenly, Oliver almost falls, but catches himself, burying his face into my neck and hugging me back.

"Shh. It'll be okay, soon."

I scrunch my eyes shut, silent tears soaking into his collar. "I don't wanna lose you again."

"You won't, Carl. I promise."

I'm pawing at his spine and kissing the crook of his neck, a desperate humming pressure building in my brain like some angry swarm of wasps. It's so intense it hurts. He holds me tighter, and my hat tumbles off to the side. I start gasping, mumbling, and Oliver tried to shush me but that humming pressure builds.

"Oliver."

"Carl," he insists. "Stop, please."

"No, not that," I whisper, because I am not asking him to stay anymore. "Oliver, jus'... Just..."

"Just what?"

"Something," I mumble, hands on his jaw and neck and collarbones, overwhelmed, all of a sudden.

Oliver stares in confusion.

"I don't know," I whisper, and our lips touch when I talk. "Just – just do something..."

Our eyes shift so close I'm losing myself in his pupils, my breath irregular, gulping back the rock in my throat.

"Just, be here with me... now."

It takes Oliver a moment, and I'm starting to get used to the fact that this kind of subject is one that Oliver usually needs a little prompting to get an understanding on. Subtle gestures don't get past his judgement. He misses them too easily. You just have to outright just ask him, I realise. Only, when he does realise what I'm asking his expression is suddenly full of every ounce of that something I'm craving from him. Maybe it's the looming fact that he could die tomorrow, or the cruel separation that we both have had to endure already, or maybe it's just the crazy, terrified, muddled, teenage hormones raging through our bodies right now, but it proves to be all that Oliver needs, because he's nodding, his chin shaking.

"I'm here."

My heart bursts, and a breathy "I know," only just manages to come out of my lips before I crash them into his, slipping one hand through his hair and the other around his middle. Oliver's hands come up around my shoulders, nestling into the fabric of my clothing, and when I push him forward I almost stumble in my clumsiness, squashing my hat under my knee. Oliver braces me before I collapse, pushing my hat away. We keep quiet while I lie on my back across the floor, pulling him to sit with his knees hugging around my hips and sides. He kisses me like he did before. Wild and whirring. My breath hitches, and shivers rush up and down my spine, and I'm aware that every moment like this builds that little bit more. I'm aware that what we're sharing together feels more like a goodbye than anything else. It terrifies and fuels me at the same time in such a way I never want it to stop, and when it does, for a moment, I burst. In every way and more, and it's embarrassing and terrifying and intense. It brings my hands to fists into his shoulder-blades and curls my toes until they crack. Oliver doesn't notice, or maybe he does and just doesn't say so, or maybe he's bursting, too, because he's holding me tightly and his whole body is tense and shuddering, but either way when the kissing slows I pull away to look at him, my palm against his cheek. He's panting madly. Me, too. I touch his lip, run my thumb along his scar and kiss it, and Oliver watches me. Even while I kiss him. His eyes big and alien and beautiful. His cheeks are blushed, blotchy, crimson.

Our foreheads press.

"I'm here," he repeats.

I hiccup. So in love. So in love it's mad. It erupts from every pore in my skin, and for a long moment we just stay here, and even when I settle we keep just staying here together, pausing time, exchanging our breath and absorbing each other like a solar panel.

Until then, somehow, in that love, we find ourselves lost together again.

It could've been the glance at my lips, the slight shift of my fingers over his nape, the flickered arch of his brow, or maybe it was the telepathic messaging that seems to have formed between us somehow. But whatever way we connect like magnets, and we kiss frantically, needing and using the other's contact as a life line; the same life line that's become very real to me, and I am needing it, needing him, as much now as–

"Wait, Carl."

He's trembling, and my palm is against his cheek. I answer by kissing him, nodding somewhere in the mixture of it all.

"We shouldn't. They – they're only next door."

I slow, stopping. Oliver's panting.

"I know," I admit breathlessly, brow knitted into a frown against his forehead. "I – I know. Just, let us be here, please?"

He's nodding before I finish talking.

I kiss him.

"My heart is beating so fast," he says, everything intense. So intense I can hear the _thumpa-thumpa-thumpa_ of his life hammering away inside his chest.

"I can feel it," I whisper, chuckling. "I can feel you."

For a moment we whisper into each other's ears, intimate intense minutes rolling through us, and we're telling each other things that I'm not sure are even possible to explain. I'm telling him that I love him, and he's telling me that he loves me, too, and we're telling each other that we're hurting and breaking and terrified but totally alright all at the same time, only we aren't saying any of it aloud. It's single words or nudges or noises or breaths that mean so much between us, like our own secret language that only we understand, and throughout it all we'll start craving more of the whirring from each other, and so we'll start it all over again, kissing and breathing and bursting and comforting, and it stops and starts and whirs and electrifies for a long time. So long that eventually Oliver and I both manage to finally, somehow, everything begins to slowly settle, and we let ourselves simply forget about everything else, and it's just us, so we cave into our exhaustion and fall asleep in each other's arms together.

* * *

**Notes**

Below is a special message for one reader in particular. Someone I know personally and has been **sneaky** and **nosy** and **intrusive **and **stubborn** enough to find out where my story is.

You know who you are.

Yes _you, _**Sher****lock. **I'm talking to _you._

You suck, but Goddamn, I love you. One day I wont care who reads my stuff, but for now I am just too terrified of being judged by stupid people. You are truly a phenomenal best friend. I am so happy you're in my life. God damn, I fucking hate you for this. STOP READING MY FUCKING FANFICTION, YOU FREAK!

P.S. Your the Sherlock to my Watson.

I love you!

**Preview: In the next chapter next Saturday, Oliver finally makes a decision of what to do with those stupid Morley cigarettes. About bloody time, huh?! Everybody is saying goodbye and the family is splitting up again for what feels like the thousandth time. A promise is made... but the question is if it can be kept.**

As always,  
Happy reading xx :)


	42. Crossed, Part 1: No More Empty Promises

**Bane2014 **No, long reviews are welcome! I practically fuel my motivation from them. Longer reviews = more passion in my writing! xxx I thank you for understanding, but, I fear by the end of this chapter in the notes you will hate me :S xx My plan is to keep writing this until I catch up with the mid season finale, and then I will go on hiatus until the finale and resume writing :) And yes, this story will be following the show, though, fairly soon it will temporarily become pretty cannon... but no spoilers xx And you're freaking welcome, I can't believe people actually stay up reading this, it's crazy. I don't think even I would! Haha

**Hehe **Oh dear, I laughed way too hard at your comment. Uh, your _Bea... _Hahaha will comes into the story in chapter 2. And I can't tell if you meant weird good or weird bad... regardless, thanks for the funny comment xx

**The Flash Fanatic **Thank you! I try *blushes* :)

**The Box **Aww! True-to-life, that's so freaking lovely to say! I love you! XXX They are total Goobers haha THANK YOU!

**NewWalker **:3 *conflicted flattery* ... Grrr! Hello, Sherlock! What are you doing here!? Oh wait, I know! You found my story behind my back you little shit, you little nosy bugger! Haha, thanks, sweet. You're awesome! Haha, I hardly think I will be writing for the show, that's a bit of a stretch. Haha, but thanks for being awesome! I love you too, see you on Tuesday. PICK ME UP FOR COLLEGE! MESSAGE ME!

**TheDarkerSide123 **No, no don't be sorry. That's a total compliment! Thank you! I hope to hear from you again soon. Your support is gold to me, no. No! It's Oliver's beanie hat to me!

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

I'm not exactly sure how long I've been awake, just, the first thing I became aware of was that he's here. With me. Same vice versa, I guess. It almost feels like I didn't fall asleep at all, though, the room is lighter, so, I must have.

We fell asleep kissing last night.

_**That's funny.  
**__Why?  
__**I don't know. It just is. Like, who does that? Who falls asleep kissing someone?**_

There is a blanket covering us, I realise. I guess someone came in and put it over us, since neither Carl or me were particularly willing to leave each other last night.

_**Just be grateful they didn't come in earlier.**_

Carl shuffles, and then there is blue. So much of it that I daydream about being outside, staring up at the sky, or maybe falling from a plane, tumbling thousands of feet into the ocean. But he blinks, and I snap out of my dizzy haze, staring in awe at the shining light blue flecks in him. My hand lifts to his chin, lightly running my thumb from it up his jaw to just below his earlobe.

"I love you."

I'd said it slowly in a whisper without thinking about it. He's sleepy, and most likely in no real conscious state to register what I'd said. It's nice seeing him so calm and unaware of his troubles. Though, a moment later I am proven wrong when he moves closer, and when he speaks his voice is so quiet that I'd miss it if I weren't fully focussing on him. . .

"Love you... so much."

I wrap my arms around him and kiss his fringe. When he kisses the centre of my neck I close my eyes, exhaling, wishing this didn't have to end. He's doing well to hide his own dread. But I can sense it, still, that dismal omen surrounding him –surrounding both of us– in no way I can explain any clearer. Though, I know it'll only be more cruel to the both of us if I make a big deal about it, so I go at it more subtly, doing my best to ease the tension with a gentle nudge of my chin against the top of his head.

"Wonder if there'll be any stocked up food places in Atlanta we can raid," I say quietly.

I can feel Carl try to smile, but he just lets out a breath and shrugs, and then, "Corn," is literally all he manages to say to me. I laugh, pulling away to see him. He's watching me. I take his hand and squeeze it in both of mine.

"Tell you what? I'll bring you back some," I say, twiddling my fingers between his. "No, I'll bring you back so much corn that you can drown in it."

Carl does smile then, and he rests his forehead against my collarbone. I sigh, kissing his knuckle, letting my lips press to the scars he has there – the skin all thick and smooth and bumpy, healed now.

"Drowning in corn does sound like a sweet way to go," he tells me.

I chuckle. Carl grins at me. It almost falters so I say, "Didn't know you were so punny."

Carl laughs drowsily, shaking his head, "God, that's terrible."

I keep smiling at him, but the smile slowly fades when the lingering mood returns. He kisses my forehead. I'm still holding his hand. For a long time we stay like this, tucked into each other, making the most of the quiet. Maybe an hour passes, or maybe only minutes, but eventually Carl falls asleep again. It is still early though, really early, much earlier than we usually wake up. The air is still and calm. The sun hasn't even risen over the horizon yet by the light, only maybe slightly touched it. Not very bright, with dark purple and a little bit of orange trickling through the shutters overhead.

All this time passing, I remember something.

"Carl."

He jolts slightly.

"I'm gonna go find Daryl, back in a bit."

"Want me to come with?"

"Nah." I kiss his forehead. "I'll be back soon."

I pull off my flannel shirt, folding it and placing it under his head to replace what my arm was doing previously, then I pull up the blanket to cover him better. I'm about to stand up, but Carl's hand finds mine, holding it to his chin.

"You'll come back," he mumbles, not even fully conscious. I wonder if he means after I'm done talking with Daryl or Grady. But my answer applies for both. . .

"Promise."

* * *

Everyone is asleep so I tip toe across the edge of the chapel, scanning heads for Daryl. But he went on watch right after we were done planning the trip last night which wasn't more that five hours ago so I'm betting he's still out there. I slip out the front doors without more than as a glance in my direction.

My eyes find those worn angel wings instantly Daryl sits at the bottom of the steps with his crossbow across his knees. He looks over his shoulder and his eyes narrow, seeing as it's me out of everyone else here looking for him. As much as I idolise him, it's pretty unheard of for me to seek Daryl Dixon out on my own for no real reason. I sort of wave, intimidated, to be honest. But then again it's hard not to be. He makes a quiet grunt of a greeting and nods, turning back to keep watch. _I should just go back inside. __**No!**__ He doesn't want me out here bothering him. __**Don't you dare. Do it, Oliver. That stupid packet of cigarettes is driving you insane.**_

I take a deep breath and plan what I need to say. Daryl starts getting uncomfortable, looking back at me and frowning, and he's about to say something, probably ask what I want or tell me to piss off, but I blurt out: "I found these a few days ago and thought you'd maybe want them if you want... if you want them."

_**Ten out of ten performance, man. Very impressive. You'll go far. The youth of the apocalypse looks so promising.**_

Daryl grimaces, watching me pull out the unfortunate and devastatingly squashed packet of Morleys from my pocket.

"Here."

"Where'd you get'm?" he asks, taking them, his voice rough and coarse and tired.

"Outside Terminus," I answer, catching my breath. "That car, by the shack. Sorry they're pretty crushed."

He shrugs, "I ain't complainin'."

He lights one. It smells strong and too much like my dad, all of a sudden. I shiver, go to turn away, and I almost miss it, but at the last moment I catch it, late –so late that it becomes awkward, realising that Daryl had just gestured for me to sit with him. So I do, joining him on the bottom step, forearms on my knees.

"You want one?"

I don't mean to show the utter shock on my face at his offer, my head whipping around to stare at him so fast that my hair flicks over my eyes –I'd left my beanie with Carl. Daryl gestures the packet to me again. I shake my head vigorously, then more casual, "Oh, uh. No. Um, no. I'm good. Thanks."

What I want to call a smirk flickers over his face, but of course, it's gone before I can tell. "You haven't had any yet."

I shake my head no.

"Why'd you take'm?"

"Well, um, I was gonna try one. But, I dunno, just didn't wanna anymore. An' kinda..." It only just occurs to me that I'm mimicking his accent by accident. I stop, clear my throat. "And, I kind of didn't have a lighter."

"I won't tell," he says.

"Really?"

"Ain't my place to. They're yours after all."

Again though, I decline. "No, I'm fine."

He takes a drag from his cigarette, pocketing his new packet and rusty lighter, very roughly, saying, "See why she likes you so much."

I dip my head, kind of flattered really, but it's tough to be flattered when the reason you are is because of someone you are so worried about, if that makes sense. "Yeah. We went through a lot together. Carol... She's sorta like..."

"Family," Daryl finishes. I nod, scratching at my nose. Daryl makes a short, quiet grunt of agreement. "Yeah, me too."

We fall into quiet after that. Minutes pass through the Church. Neither one of us are very talkative people, but apparently, when compared, Daryl is still the one to start the conversation first: "Found another packet back at Atlan'a. Right before we found Noah."

"How'd you meet him?"

Daryl takes another drag. "Moron robbed us."

_**Brave move.**__ I hope he didn't try to take their weapons.__** Takes either a very brave person to steal Daryl Dixon's crossbow... or... you know, just a really, really, really stupid person.**__ If I had to choose, I'd call the latter._

"You caught him?" I ask.

"Yeah," Daryl answers, glaring ahead at the tree-line, "trapped him under a bookshelf. Almost letta walker get'm."

He takes another drag.

"My dad used to smoke Morley cigarettes," I pipe up. "He quit though, after a while. But he always had a stash somewhere for when he got home from his business trips. Like, random places around the house or outside. Just as comfort I guess." I'm not really sure why I am telling him this. I just, started talking.

But to my surprise Daryl starts talking, too: "My mom smoked'm. It's what she used to set our house on fire. Killed herself."

I clamp my teeth uncomfortably.

"Ain't nothin'. Jus' what happened."

"Yes, sir."

Again, that fleet of a maybe-smile happens, though I can't tell for sure. He rubs his lip with his thumb and starts chewing on it. "Y'always callin' me that," he remarks.

I almost apologise, but I realise I don't need to, and by the modest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth I think I can guess he doesn't actually disapprove.

"Patrick did, too."

That familiar pang aches at my chest again. "Yeah," I reply, voice small, "we kind of always have."

He dips his head this little bit and takes a last drag, snubs it out on his kneecap, then lights another. Daryl is kind of fascinating, once you get to thinking about it. It's hard to explain but I'm fairly sure that Patrick was onto something with his old fanbase.

"I know what it's like," Daryl says. "I lost a brother, too."

"Merle."

I recollect the various things that Carl and Carol had told me about Daryl's older bother when he happened to come up in conversation. _The Legends of Merle Dixon,_ Patrick and I used to call them to amuse ourselves. How Rick was forced to hand cuff him to a rooftop in Atlanta, and how he survived, cut his own hand off and attached a giant, terrifying, metal blade to it, and how he sacrificed his own life to save everyone after the first attack. Admittedly, and I would never say this out loud, but Merle is somewhat of an apocalyptic superhero to me. I'd have definitely bought that comic book.

"Yeah," Daryl nods. "Guess you've heard a lot 'bout him."

_Yes, sir._

"Probably not all good stuff."

_. . . No, sir._

I'd heard about what else Merle did; working for the Governor, kidnapping Glenn and Maggie, almost sacrificing Michonne.

"I ain't sayin' he was all good," Daryl says quietly, his voice so low and coarse that it almost seems to blend with the rustling of the trees. As if he is so in tune with his surroundings that he's become a part of it. "Damn, he was an asshole. Left me with my dad when we were kids – wan'eda get away from him 'cause he beat 'im. Bastard beat me, too... but I stayed 'cause I had to. And then, when he came back, I went right back to him. Followed him like a sheep. But, he was my brother, y'know?"

"Yeah," I say truthfully, understanding to a much lesser scale, I'm sure, but understanding all the same; how it is almost like instinct to follow an older brother.

Daryl rubs at his overgrown moustache.

"After you lost him," I start. "The first time over the Winter. Were you glad to have him back? Were you happy, when you found each other?"

"Well, I didn't punch him 'round the face, if that's what you mean."

"_No,_" I almost laugh, but the seriousness of the subject makes laughter pretty impossible.

"I was happy, relieved, but, uh... it weren't no fluffy, hugs'n kisses brotherly reunion thing. Truth is it was tough. Brutal. We were in Woodbury. I'd been taken hostage... Governor put us in a ring and wan'ed us to fight to death with a bunch o' walkers on chains in this – this big circle all 'round us. In the end Rick'n the others came in'n rescued us, but, then, when we got out, Merle convinced me to leave'm. And I did... Left everyone for him. Knew it was wrong... but."

"But he was your brother."

Daryl gives me a small nod and grunt, then watches me, scrutinising me in that subtly-curious empathetic Dixon way that is kind of absolutely terrifying now that I am witnessing it. I look back at the tree line ahead, squinting as I watch a robin bird twitter around on the floor, picking at twigs and bark and weeds, until it gathers as much as its tiny beak will allow and flies away.

"What 'bout you? Why'd you attack Patrick when you firs' saw 'im?"

I shrug at first, honestly finding it difficult to remember a motive to any of my actions back then. "I was in a weird space. I guess five months does that."

"Yeah, try eight."

I bite my tongue, realising that Daryl was apart from his brother for a lot longer than I was. "Right. Yeah, sorry. Guess I can't really complain."

"Yeah. You can," he counteracts. "I had these guys. You? You were on your own the whole time. Musta been tough."

I rest my chin across my arms and sigh, swaying side to side and tapping against my kneecap. "I'm here now. I got to see my brother again, even if it was only for a little while. That's enough for me." A pause, because I'm not sure I mean that part. "Well, no... it's not. He's dead. But it was something."

"_H__mff__,_" he answers. I don't know what it meant for sure but I think it's along the lines of: _"__I understand__."_

I scratch my chin. There really is a little hair there. For a long time I build my question in my head, letting it form as a sure sentence in my chest until if finds enough courage to show itself. . .

"Did she, um, tell you, you know, why?"

Alright, that didn't come out as confident as I thought it would.

"Why what?" Daryl asks.

"Why she left."

"Yeah, she did."

I should take this as my hint to stop asking questions now, but I still do anyway: "Is she okay? I mean, not getting hit or falling from the bridge, but is _she_ okay?"

He scratches the cut on his eyebrow. It's still healing. Scarred and dark and sore. "You're gonna ask her yourself..." he explains, looking right at me. "But, she's sorry. And, she's scared – may not seem it, and she's a tough lady but she's hurtin'. Cares about you. Cares about you so much it's hard for her to keep up with it, 'specially after Sophia and the girls."

"Did she tell you about Mika and Lizzie?"

"Didn't need to. They ain't here."

"You knew Sophia didn't you?"

He glances at me, and even though he says and does nothing I see the _yeah I did_.

"Carl told me."

Daryl sort of hums his grunt this time. It occurs to me that out of Daryl and I that maybe it's me who is more talkative. I'm not sure what to do with this information. It's a little of a shock, really. First time it's ever happened. In the end I don't say anything else either.

A trail of ants scurry between my feet under the porch. Eventually I stand up, stretching. The sunrise has turned the sky blue again, a few clouds dotted around, glowing a little from the sun only just coming through the tree line ahead, and over in the right hand corner of the natural canvas is Venus, still there. Either haunting me or watching over me, I try not to decide.

"Thanks for the cigs," Daryl pipes up.

"Yes, sir."

With one last nod over his shoulder I turn and go into the Church. Rick is awake, feeding Judith. "Mornin', Oliver."

I wave.

"Where's Carl?"

I point to the office.

Rick nods, "You two alright? I heard, uh, you know..."

"_Agh_!" I grunt when I trip over my own feet, suddenly blushing, because I'm remembering last night and thinking about how crusty it may or may not have left my underwear. . . "Uh. W-what?"

_Oh shit!_

"The arguing," Rick answers.

_Oh... shit. _I sigh in relief, almost laugh. Rick frowns.

"You two alright?"

"Oh, y-yeah. Yeah, we're fine. We just, had to talk about it."

_A__lso make out for a _very_ long time._

"But he's okay now," I ignore myself. "We are."

Rick nods, "Gotta look out for each other. All of us."

That's the bitter-sweet problem-solution of it all.

"I'm gonna go wake him," I say.

Rick nods and turns back to his daughter. When I'm inside the office, Carl is still asleep. Fast asleep. I almost can't bring myself to wake him, hating myself for having to. But, I decide that if I do I will do it nicely, as lately, I really haven't been so kind. What with waking him up by blowing in his ear and then trying to claw his chest apart yesterday, and so I think he deserves it. So I kneel down beside him and place a hand on his chest, thumbing at the collar of his shirt.

"Carl?"

I knew he wouldn't stir so I lean down, gently brushing a few strands of his hair out of his eyes. They're closed and far away.

"Hey. Wake up, Grimes."

He doesn't bat an eye lid. My fingers slip across his collarbones, and my lips touch his; a fast press and release. He murmurs something, but, ultimately, doesn't rouse. So I do it again, only this time it is his jaw that my lips come into contact with, and this time he lets out a sigh, arching his neck. He still doesn't wake up.

_I thought I was a heavy sleeper._

I'm grinning, giggling, and by accident my teeth become involved. It causes a sharp intake of breath from him, and then Carl is suddenly awake. A pull, then a push, and then we're kissing. I'm not sure how fast it happens, but the next thing I know my back is flattened to the floor and his knees are tucked against my hips, and I'm flinching horrifically, completely taken off guard, and then I'm making these noises, like grunts and gasps at the same time because he's doing this... _thing, _with his–

"Christ, Carl!"

"Shush."

I do, awkwardly, and then I get to thinking about how good it actually feels, and my eyes shut and my fingers close into his hair and Carl takes this as the perfect moment to suddenly stop. My mind is spinning and I'm frowning at him and trying not to look embarrassed or goofy. He laughs at me, probably because I'm failing miserably. The hair on my head is stuck up like a satellite, my cheeks are searing, and my breath is short and gulpy. I try to think what to do with my hands but they're just up like I've got a gun aimed at me, my brain lacking any ability for functioning thought process.

"Mornin', Oliver."

". . . Hi?"

His eyes widen for a second, his cheeks turning crimson. He snorts.

I swallow, trying to catch my breath. "What?"

He puts his hands in mine and pulls them to my chest, and he's grinning, this ridiculous cow lick on the side of his head sticking out like an antenna. When he leans down to me he whispers what he's laughing about into my ear and I blush shamelessly.

"Well, what do you expect?" I ask defensively once he's sat up again. "Kissing me like that."

He laughs. "Sorry."

I look up at the ceiling, nervous and awkward and trying not to move too much. My eyebrows jump up anxiously, and I look at him. "Uh, you should probably get off me."

"Yeah I probably should."

He doesn't.

"We kinda gotta go," I remind him, chewing my thumbnail. It isn't so much that I'm not enjoying myself, it's more that him just sitting here is making thinking properly very challenging. I'm tensing my legs and trying to think about boring things like soccer games and encyclopedias and coffee, but he's still sat on me. "Like, go now," I add. "Help out."

"Pretty sure they'll notice," Carl says, glancing down, "not exactly the easiest thing to hide."

"Not exactly like I can tell it to go away either," I retort, propping myself up on my elbows. We almost kiss but Carl isn't fast enough before I pull my head back to smirk at him. "And thanks for the compliment I think."

Carl scoffs, "Air head."

I start humming the chorus to the Italian National Anthem in another attempt to distract myself.

"Oliver...?"

I nod, quieten.

"Before, back at the suburb. You said... um," he fumbles, thumbing nervously at the collar of my shirt before realising what he is doing. "You said we weren't ready, you know, to be together like that."

I blink, though inside little bees are buzzing around all over the place, frantic for all their honey.

"I was just, wondering... what... uh, what about now?"

I sort of just stare at him, stuttering.

"Oh." Carl's eyes widen. "No. No, I don't mean _now_ now."

"Oh, okay."

"God, Oliver," Carl grumbles, looking overwhelmed. "No, Jesus, I mean, well, if we were alone, and if – if we both wanted to. Would you still wait?"

"I'd want you to be okay with it," I answer, like it's obvious, also embarrassed because my heartbeat is so violent he's jolting to it. "I'd want it to be something that you wanted. And, uh, Rick kinda told me that he didn't want us doing that stuff until we're older."

He murmurs something I pretend not to hear that sounded an awful lot like, _What I do with you has nothing to do with him anyway._Then he nods slowly, "You didn't answer my question."

"Oh?"

"What about _you_?" he emphasises. "What do _you_ want?"

This genuinely stumps me. I mean, it's fairly obvious. It's just I'd never thought of it on my terms first before. I always think what his terms are, what he's comfortable with. So I stare at him. _Him,_ being, the very person that is the answer to his own question, and by the soft smile on his lips he knows it, too.

"You're always thinking," he whispers. "Thinking so much up there you forget to let anybody else in on it."

I swallow, "Sorry."

"It's okay. I know what you're thinking anyway."

"Yeah?"

"You're thinkin' about what's best for me. And, what my dad would approve of, and if you're doing the right thing." He leans down to me, our hands on the floor above my shoulders. He's heavy against the back of my hands but not uncomfortably. His long dark hair hangs down from his ears and forehead. "It's like you don't even realise how good you are. It's like you don't even realise how much my dad trusts you, and, how the best for me is–"

I'm kissing him.

"You're so good for all of us," Carl goes on, pushing me back insistently. "You don't even realise, Oliver. You don't even r..."

Again, I'm kissing him, telling him to shut up, adding, "please," for polite measure. It's mad, all of a sudden, because I feel so much appreciation and need to love him that I wonder if I've ever felt it like this before. This intense. This infatuated. This in love.

God it's ridiculous.

Ridiculous and totally awesome.

"Oliver, you're trembling."

When he pulls away his eyes are black, stealing my focus and locking it away deep inside them. He realises that all of this kissing is not helping my situation at all and chuckles. "Sorry."

I snicker, pushing his face away so that he can't look at me. "No you're not."

He pushes his face back again. "You're right. I'm not."

I take a breath, pulling him down to press our foreheads. But the atmosphere softens, slowly and then suddenly turning from light and fun to sad and afraid, so we stop smiling. Carl relaxes, and then he wipes his eyes.

"What's wrong?"

_That was a stupid question.  
**So stupid.  
**So incredibly stupid and cruel._

I can feel the dread swamp him.

"You're leaving me."

He's said it like it was an accident. Like he'd tried not to. Like it just happened. It breaks my heart.

"No," I say. "No, I'm not. Carl. God dammit, I promise."

He doesn't say anything, just holds me. I hold him, too. I've never seen him like this. He seems to have a lot of ways to cope with his fears. After the attack on the Prison he tried shutting me and his father out, only to break down almost two days later in front of the both of us. I've seen him cry. I've seen him scream. I've seen him so angry that I was almost afraid of what he'd do. But this, this terror for me and his father and his family is making him more terrified than I've ever seen him before.

_CRACK!_

I startle. Carl's grunts. We look at each other when another loud bang shakes through the Church.

"What the hell?"

More banging.

Carl and I quickly put on our hats and shirts –thankfully I'm dignified enough that some simple and careful manoeuvring should be enough to spare me from too much embarrassment, just so long as I don't move around too much at least for a little while. Carl heads to the door.

"It's Sasha," he says. I look, too. She's hacking away at a bench, destroying it. Daryl and Tyreese are talking over by the organ at the end of the chapel. Carl's eyes are red and puffy so I give him a minute and step out of the office alone.

"What's going on?" I ask, voice cracking so clearing my throat as I step out of the room. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," Ty says. "We're jus' getting' ready for leavin'. Puttin' up some extra protection around the Church."

It was decided that Carl, Michonne, Gabriel and are staying here.

Daryl is wrenching metal pipes from the organ. "Now that you're up ya'll can start on the shutters with Noah."

Carl emerges from the office, his walls back up now, looking tough and un-phazed and moody. "Sure," he mumbles. We head outside together, greeting Rick and Michonne as they go to work on the shutters nearest the front of the building, and they tell us that Noah is around the back and briefly go over what we're doing.

"We don't have another hammer other than the big black guy's," Noah tells us without looking at us, hammering away at a wooden board over the window with the borrowed tool.

"Tyreese," I inform him of its owner's real name.

Noah turns to me, wiping a bead of sweat from his face and extending his hand to shake. "Noah."

I shake his hand, again having to slightly stretch my social capabilities. "I'm Oliver."

Noah tilts his head and frowns, "Then, who's Tyreese?"

"Oh, uh, he's the, uh, 'big black guy'," I explain awkwardly.

"Got it," Noah smirks, turning to Carl and extending his hand. "Carl, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'll go get something we can use," I tell them, heading back inside. Once I find a few hacked off bench legs I go back out to them. Rick and Michonne talk about today as I pass them but I don't stop to listen. "Here," I hand Carl a leg, grabbing a wooden board from the floor and holding it up. On each end of it, Noah and Carl bash a long nail into the wood until it's held up securely, repeating the process on the other windows.

"Are you gonna take the cross, too?" we overhear Father Gabriel ask Daryl, who is lodging another long metal pipe of dismantled organ into the earth at the entrance with all the rest. They'll be used as spikes to impale any walkers that get too close. The idea was inspired by Michonne, who said it worked at the Prison, and she mentioned something about a guy called Morgan with his own snares, too.

"If we need it?" is all Daryl answers.

**Carl's POV**

We finish boarding every window. In the end we didn't have to use the cross, and it remains on the roof where Gabriel says it belongs. I try not to show my dread as we all head back inside, forcing the relax in my face and body and voice.

Michonne, Dad, Daryl, and Noah are stocking up the truck that was used last night to escape Atlanta, letting Tyreese, Sasha and Oliver take the opportunity to simply be in our company for as long as possible. Oliver and I are listening to the others as they talk amongst themselves, occasionally regarding us but mostly not. Oliver and I hardly talk together at all, maybe one word sentences or nods, instead keeping a tight hold on each other's hand, standing so close I'm sure any closer I'd fit inside him, just, slot right into his skin without even realising it. Finally Dad comes back and whistles for them to get ready.

My heart drops.

Nods and forced smiles are exchanged with Sasha, Tyreese and Daryl as they head out to the truck. I hug Michonne. Noah must be out there waiting already. Both Oliver and I don't leave each other's side for as long as possible, watching Dad kiss Judith before he's handing her to Oliver and letting him say his own silent fair well. I've stopped being jealous now. But even so, I pine for the day Judith might look at me like she looks at Oliver, like she thinks he's the neatest person she knows, like, _I trust you. I trust you so much._ I pull myself from the wall I'm leant on and let Dad pull me into him, and when we pull away he grips the side of my neck in the same gentle and familiar way that he always has, and I'm looking at him like Judith looks at Oliver, like, _I trust you. I trust you so much._

"We'll be back soon," he tells me.

"I know."

He leaves to join the others outside. I turn to Oliver. He hands Judith to Michonne, his own expression forcing its calmness, too, but as soon as my sister is secure in Michonne's hold and Oliver has pulled himself into my arms, I know he's wincing into my shoulder. I let my own expression scrunch, but we compose ourselves before we pull away. I kiss his forehead, telling him, "I love you," without saying it aloud.

"No more empty promises," Oliver whispers.

I nod, step back, and Oliver leaves the Church. My heart is racing and aching and my stomach is churning as he and Dad are closing the doors behind them. Oliver keeps looking at me until he can't anymore and I'm just watching them go through the thin gap in the frame. Judith senses the dismal mood and starts crying. But we know that there's nothing we can do so we leave her to settle in her basket. Gabriel goes to his office and Michonne and I go to work on nailing the door closed.

* * *

**Notes**

Still have no idea what Carl was doing to him at the beginning xD

FINALLY GOT RID OF THOSE STUPID MORLEY CIGS! Yaaay! A few rather important conversations in this one. Daryl's talk with Oliver, because I thought it was important to the story that they both recognised how much they related to each other what with being separated from their brothers, and then for them to die shortly after finding them again. Also, Carl and Oliver finally spoke about taking things to the next level, which I thought was also important. But it won't be for a little while yet.

Hope you liked it :)

**Preview: The next chapter will be the next few scenes from the episode "Crossed". Noah and Oliver finally have a conversation in which Oliver doesn't want to sock him around the face in. Back at The Church, Carl tries to help Gabriel overcome his fears, and Michonne expresses her worry for him and the rest of their group.**

I love Momma Michonne. She and Carl are so sweet together!

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_


	43. Crossed, Part 2: Carl's Not Your Brother

**First and foremost, special CONGRATULATIONS to fictoinboy for your engagement! Here's to a long and happy husbandry!**

**The Flash Fanatic **Thank you. I'm so glad that that you thought so, I'm not really the most experienced when it comes to romance (in the real world XD) so it means a lot that you think I am in writing it, you thank you.

**Bane2014 **Haha, thank you, it made me laugh too. I know, and I'm so glad you are okay with my choice xx love ya!

**SirenPash **Aw! Ah! Eep! Thank you, and I really have no idea how I have pulled it off. Thank you! A balance, ah, that's so nice! Yeah, themes throughout this have become accidentally really important, what with how the show does it. Thank you, I'm glad you gave it a chance and liked it so much! I don't think that this will be completed until the show is, unless I lose interest and decide to put a bullet or blade between Oliver's eyes... ugh... that came out a lot more heartless than I meant it to, and I could almost feel Oliver glaring at me haha Much admiration to you too!

**The DarkerSide123 **You have returned! Haha, thank you! Haha, yeah, I had one of my internet buddies message me saying "Don't have Oliver talk to Daryl, it's too weird!" and then twenty minutes later they said, "I take back what I said." hahaha that made me laugh, and I'm glad it worked out so well! And I'm glad you're happy about my smut decision. It was rated M, but I changed it a few weeks ago when I had started making my "no smut" decision. Haha, squeal all you want, just, make sure you're not around other unsuspecting people. Trust me, and take it from someone who knows... it makes us look mad when we giggle for no apparent reason. Haha, my dad once called me a loon... haha It means so much to me that my support to your support means so much to you! Ugh, my head hurts, haha love ya!

**inazumahunter **Haha, I find it really funny how awkward he is with strangers too. A lot like me haha Yeah, they are split up again, I'm so cruel :( I've also realised that out of the forty odd chapters in this, only eight of them have the boys actually kissed or been particularly romantic in. But not for long... soon I will let them catch up on ALL of the overdue kissing, so stick with them for a little longer! Haha

**Oliver's POV**

Dread.

I try not to let it seep into my mind and creep over my skin.

But it does.

So I stop trying.

Simply adjusting to it as it consumes every part of me.

I hear them hammering away at boarding The Church, forcing myself not to turn back to break the doors open and leap into Carl's arms again. So I follow Tyreese, Sasha, Daryl and Rick out of the lot and down the street towards the truck.

Rick and Daryl take the front while Tyreese, Sasha I take the back. I go to the very end of the boot nearest the driver's end and then take a seat on the floor against the wall opposite Noah, followed by Tyreese and Sasha, who take a seat nearest the exit on the other end with tense expressions that we all share.

The truck engine roars into action, and I take deep breaths to subdue the dread as we pull out of the by pass and onto the road to Atlanta.

Along the journey, I over hear Tyreese and Sasha talking together, but I train my gaze to the sky light above Noah's head, watching the trees and occasional tops of buildings whiz past as I make an effort not to eves drop on the sensitive subjects that I know must still be tearing away at them; Bob and Karen.

Almost an hour passes before anyone addresses me. But to my surprise, it's not Tyreese, or even Sasha, but Noah who initiates the conversation.

"You been with these guys from the start?" he asks quietly, gesturing his hands to me to get my attention.

I'm a little taken back by how social I realise Noah is. But I become aware that this is probably considered normal behaviour and that it is really me that is abnormally unsocial, so I make an effort and prop myself up a little into a more respectable sitting position and answer him.

"Uh, no," I manage, but when Noah keeps holding my eye contact I realise that he is waiting for me to continue, so, pushing myself that little bit extra more, I elaborate. "I've been with them for just over three months now. Michonne and Daryl brought me back on a run – reunited me with my brother." For a moment, recollecting all of this brings a sweep of nostalgia over me and I almost shake my head to clear it.

Noah's brow rises, "Wow," he says, impressed that the chances of me finding my family again in this day and age. "I've been lookin' for family, too," he tells me, then to my further surprise he gets up from his seat and comes to sit beside me, grunting a little from his wound as he sets himself down about a foot or so to my left.

Noah had explained that he injured his leg while escaping. He and Beth had to climb down an elevator shaft, but he fell... He said that if it weren't for Beth he would have never made it out.

He looks out in front of us, staring out of the window I have been fixated on the whole journey for a moment before talking again. "How long were you separated?" he asks.

I furrow my brow and glance at the youth, wondering if he means me and Patrick or me and Carl, wondering further if Daryl might have mentioned us or something and that is how he knows.

Noah catches my confusion, "You and your brother," he says, then motions up to Rick. "An' your dad."

"Oh," I blurt, shaking my head and unable to stop myself from smiling at the big misunderstanding that is going on here. "No. Rick's not my dad."

"But, your brother... I thought..." he struggles.

"My brother died three weeks ago," I tell him bluntly, feeling the pain of that truth still stinging in my heart, but dealing with it all the same, adjusting to it.

Noah's expression softens, "Oh, um, I'm sorry to hear that," he says, giving his condolences.

I purse my lips and nod, "We've all lost people," I say truthfully, my eyes flickering over to Sasha and Tyreese as they sit in grieved silence together.

Noah smiles sympathetically, "Yeah."

For a little while, we go back to staring out of the window. But I can almost sense the silent confusion still playing on Noah's mind, and as if on cue, he glances over at me.

"Carl's not your brother is he?"

A smirk spreads across my lips at that, and I dip my head and shake it in declination before looking up at the youth and grinning broader than I probably should given the current atmosphere in the truck right now, but its a rare occasion that I get to actually talk about such things.

"No," I say quietly, wondering how he didn't realise already, though I guess he hadn't seen us say goodbye or anything so he had no reason to. So with my next statement, I make sure that the proudness in my voice and expression is clear. "He's my boyfriend."

The momentary surprise on the youth's expression is priceless, and for a moment I am baffled by how he can be shocked by this information when we are living in a world where the dead have risen from their graves. But it seems that he comes to the same conclusion, because he gets over it and purses his lips into a smile.

Their is a moments quiet, albeit, it is pretty awkward.

"I remember my next door neighbours were gay," Noah says a moment later, deciding that he wants to continue the subject even though I had made no indication that it was necessary.

I resist the urge to cock an eyebrow at him, nodding instead for lack of any idea on how else to respond. "Okay," I say, confused by where he is going with this and by the look on his face he is just as uncertain.

"But they were girls," he says, "so I guess it's kinda different."

I do well not to laugh. For one, he seems to have just assumed that Carl and I are gay, when both of us have been attracted to the opposite sex at least once in our lives, one crush of Carl's being one of the very women we are going to rescue right now; Beth, and two, it's pretty funny watching him try to think of something to socialise with me about, figuring that the only thing he seems to think we can talk about is sexuality. But quite frankly, I'm not about to go all petty and pretentious on him, and to be truthful, I'm kind of relieved for this awkward distraction, as it takes my mind off of everything that has happened to all of us and everything that we are on our way to do.

"Yeah, _kinda_," I say, unable to resist the hint of sarcasm in my voice.

Noah rolls his eyes, "No, I mean for me. I mean, I'd always thought they were pretty hot," he jokes, and I realise what he means because I'm pretty sure that he doesn't feel the same way about mine and Carl's relationship, which I obviously am more than fine with. Carl is _my _boyfriend, and the idea of someone else having those kind of thought about him other than me would be pretty damn unacceptable in my opinion.

"I can imagine," I awkwardly joke along with him. Maybe in another life where I wasn't completely head over heels in love with Carl, I would possibly consider agreeing with Noah. But right now, I'm more than happy with the Grimes that I have been so fortunate to be gifted with. So I stifle my chuckling, raising my brow in amusement at the youth.

I have decided that I like Noah. Though his humour can be a little overbearing at times, he seems like a decent guy.

I train my gaze back to the widow opposite me, falling back into the quiet again, though this time it is surprisingly free of that awkwardness, with only the grumbling drone of the truck engine as we continue our journey for a few more minutes.

"You said you were with Beth," I pipe up after a while.

Noah nods, a look of guilt flickering in his expression as he keeps his sight trained on the window.

"How is she?"

Noah looks at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'm not sure..." he tells me. "But I know she's alive."

"And Carol? They're gonna help her... they _can_ help her?"

Noah nods and I almost sigh with relief, but he shakes his head before I move, shattering through the brief relief I experienced and he doesn't wait to elaborate. "But they won't let her go... they'll make her work there 'til she pays off the debt that all the resources she's usina recover takes."

My expression tenses, "Debt? But, how long will-" I remember that we are going to rescue her, and so I change my context, "_would,_ that take?"

Noah leans down and pulls his pant leg up to expose a long, red, scar that stretches up the back of his calf, going up even further than he is showing me. "This was a couple hundred stitches and some antibiotics... I was there for almost a year an' still had more than that to go," he explains, pulling down his pant leg again and sitting up.

My breath hitches as bitter realisation hits me across the face. _**Carol got hit by a car... and she was injured before... that'd be a lot more 'debt' than just a cut on the leg like Noah's... **__Unless we succeed in rescue her today, she'd never get out... Same goes for Beth._

"That's how it works at Grady," Noah continues. "You work off what you take and then you can go. Trouble is, I'd never seen it happen like that... Everythin' costs somethin', so the debt jus'... keeps growin'... But the wards... some of 'em don't jus' make you pay with work around the hospital... girls mostly, you know?" his voice trails off and he averts his eyes uncomfortably.

I nod, my blood chilling as he tells me this. I know exactly what he means. _**Carol and Beth need to leave Grady... as soon as humanly possible.**_

"You don't get out. Not unless you escape..." Noah continues after his pause has given me enough time to become absolutely terrified, Tyreese and Sasha too by the looks, as I realise both have begin listening to Noah now too. He exchanges a glance with them. "That's why we need to rescue them."

"And we will," Tyreese gives his two cents.

I nod, swallowing the rock in my throat. "Yeah," I agree, forcing the shake from my voice as I bury my fear and dread, replacing it with determination that I am relying on to get me through this. "We will. And Carol and Beth... they'll be okay."

I recollect what I had told Carl previously, _"No more empty promises," _and I prey that the same thing applies for what I have just said. Protecting my family has become my greatest priority throughout everything we have been through. I have tried to do everything in my power to keep them safe. And I have made my mistakes, I know that. People have died when I, nor anyone else, has had any power to stop it, I know that, too. My parents. My brother. Hershel. Everyone from The Prison. Mika and Lizzie. Bob. Even the people I try not to think about near the beginning. So now that another two members of my family's life are threatened, I silently devote myself to making sure that I will do everything in my power to make what I am about to say stays true.

"We'll find them," I say, hardening my expression and keeping my voice as confident as I desperately want to feel. "We'll get them back and they'll be okay... They have to be."

_~ Several Hours Later ~_

"At sundown we fire a shot into the air," Rick goes over the carefully laid out plan to us all again as he crouches on the floor in the middle of the circle we have created around him.

We observed The Hospital for a while when we arrived to Atlanta a few hours ago, finding that their were a lot of guards dotted around the place; on the roofs and in the building mostly, with a few leaving or entering the vicinity. But like Noah said, they were on a schedule that he easily predicted. Once we were satisfied, we crept into a building a few blocks away from Grady that Noah said was clear. A warehouse of some kind I think. Again, to everyone's gratefulness and growing fondness of the youth, Noah was telling the truth and the place is empty of all living, and dead.

"Get two of 'em out on patrol," the Grimes tells us, displaying the plan on a drawing he had made on the floor, using a knife to scratch out the hallways and floors of Grady Memorial Hospital, and we all listen closely, nodding and occasionally giving our input to suggest something that might be of use or something we aren't clear on. "Then once it's dark enough that the roof top spotter won't see us, we go... We'll cut the locks on one of the stair ways - take it to the fifth floor... I open the door, Daryl takes the guard out."

"How?" Tyreese chimes in.

Rick looks up at him, and I too train my sights on the male Williams.

"Daryl slits his throat," Rick answers reassuringly, noticing the reluctance in Tyreese's expression and not realising that his hesitation is in fact a lot deeper than just simple worry. "This is all about us doin' this quiet – keepin' the upper hand... they're not expectin' us."

I keep watching Tyreese as Rick talks, and after a moment I notice to my left, Daryl picking up on the troubled man too and then doing the same as I am.

Not much gets past Daryl Dixon.

"From their we fan out," Rick goes on and I focus on him again. "Knives an' silenced weapons. We needa be _fast_." He pauses to draw a few crosses onto the map in the appropriate places. "Tyreese, Sasha. Take them," he instructs them, "Daryl, Oliver. You take whoever's in the kitchen," he tells us, and we give small confident nods in understanding. "I got Dawn," Rick finalises, frowning down on the cross that signifies the woman who is suppose to be running the place.

I had shifted my eyes back to Tyreese, examining his tense brow and grieved expression, and quite frankly, not liking it at all. As if he can feel my stare, he glances at me, his dark, brown eyes flickering between both of mine for a moment before fixing on Daryl beside me. I look without moving my head, seeing Daryl staring coldly at Tyreese.

Daryl is highly respected in our group, but to put it bluntly, he is extremely intimidating, even to Tyreese. Me? Well I'm not at all intimidating unless I've got a gun in my hand, but to Tyreese... I'm the kid that experienced the traumatic events that has mostly caused the reason why he is so unwilling to do this in the first place. So to have the both of us staring at him right now, putting even more pressure on the troubled man who clearly is having difficulty grasping what it is he needs to do in a short amount of time, is probably not the best way to go about convincing or reassuring him.

So I drop my gaze from the both of them, hoping that my subtle gesture is taken with gratitude from Tyreese as their isn't really much I can do about how Daryl handles him.

"If they're smart, the rest of 'em'll give up then," Rick says, snapping my focus to him again. He gestures to me when I look at him, raising his brow reassuringly. "Then it'll be six on three - seven on three once we get a weapon to Beth." We had come to the conclusion that Carol is most likely too weak and injured to help fight with us. I've just been trying not to think about how much.

"Thirteen on three. The wards'll help," Noah corrects him.

It's my turn to give an input. "Why would they help us? I thought you said that they were bad."

"Not all of 'em," Noah says, "Jus' a few. But once the other's know what they're fightin' for they'll set 'em straight."

I purse my lips, having trouble getting much confidence from his statement. But he's been right so far, so I nod in acceptance.

"That's best case," Tyreese says, his expression nothing short of grim. "What's the worst case...? All it takes is one o' those cops, going down the hall at the wrong time," he shakes his head in dread of his thoughts becoming true. "Then it's not quiet. All hands on deck... we talkin' 'bout a lot o' bullets flyin' around."

"If that's what it takes," Sasha voices my thoughts, but the blank look on her expression is a little worrying.

"It's not," Tyreese protests.

I shift my weight on my hips, narrowing my eyes in question at the man.

"If we get a couple that're cops. Alive. Out here," Tyreese says hoarsely. "We do an even trade... Theirs for ours... everybody goes home."

_**Shit, that's actually not a bad plan.**_

By the look on most everyone's faces I'd say they are thinking the same thing.

"Yeah I get it. An' it might work," Rick agrees, standing up to square up to Tyreese, his voice dropping considerably at his next few words. "But this will work."

Tyreese's eyes shift between Rick's, tilting his head as if he is trying not to shake it. I myself am conflicted. I'm more accustomed to the original plan, and also, realising that due to the fact that Rick is still sure of his plan it manages to give me unshaken trust in his judgement. I'm just not sure if my unlimited belief in Rick is wise, even though he has never done me or anyone I care about wrong in my book so far. But then on the other hand, I can see sense in Tyreese's proposal, and after spending all that time with him on the road, sharing the grief and devastation that the girls left us in, I have grown to trust him just as much as I do Rick. If the fair trade proves to be successful, it would mean automatic elimination of any chance in blood shed on either side.

"Nah, that'll work, too," Daryl says what I am thinking, figuring out his choice faster than I am able to.

I am taken back though, as I would have expected him to be the first to back Rick up without a second thought. Just like he would have with Merle before. Like he said to me this morning, he'd chosen to leave The Prison group after finding Merle again despite finding out that he worked for The Governor before. He gave up his friends for his family, following Merle in the direction that he knew was wrong for the both of them. But I guess that Daryl Dixon isn't one to just follow blindly behind anyone anymore. He thinks things through and doesn't miss a detail.

"You say this Dawn, she's jus', tryina keep it together, right?" the Dixon asks Noah not a moment later.

"Tryin an' Doin' are two different things," is the youth's unconfident response.

"You take two of 'er cops away, what choices does she have?" Daryl shrugs as Rick faces him and listens to what he has to say. "Everybody goes home." The Dixon raises his finger to point it at Tyreese. "Like he said."

Well, I guess that settles it then.

**Carl's POV**

Judith finally stopped screaming a few minutes ago. Luckily she didn't attract any walkers from outside. So that's good.

I'm about to go and see her, distract myself from the dread that crawls through my mind in a merciless circle, wearing down the same part of me over and over again. But Michonne beats me to her. So I try to think of something else to do, looking around the building only to see Gabriel, scrubbing relentlessly away at Gareth's blood stain on the wooden floor.

I remember that Oliver and I never finished sorting the supplies in Gabriel's office last night. So I decide to make use of the time I have and I go and continue the job, grabbing an armful of cans and piling them in the chapel by the benches to the front, and then going back and getting some more. We had put them in Gabriel's office so that Gareth and his Termites wouldn't find us, but now that they're dead and we will be having to move the supplies back out of the office for when we finally, hopefully, get going to D.C. I thought I might as well start.

So once I get all of the food and supplies out of the office, I go back into it to make one last check I have everything, finding that I had left the knife case Oliver and I stocked in the corner of the room.

I crouch down and grab it, lingering in my low position for a moment as the memories of last night flood me with nostalgia and worry, making me suddenly miss Oliver so intensely that the longing for him punches me in the gut.

I want him here. I want his kiss again, his touch, his voice, his scent...

I drift off into my thoughts so far that for a moment, my breath hitches when I swear I feel him here, pressing his lips to mine to reassure me.

An imaginary touch that feels so real.

I lift my hand to my mouth, grazing the ends of my fingers over my lips and wishing to feel it again, but I don't, so stand up, pushing my yearning to the back of my head as I leave the office with the knife case in my arms.

Gabriel is still scraping away at the floor, making no difference to the stain that hasn't faded even with his efforts. Some marks just never go away. Gabriel needs to realise this. If he doesn't then he is going to die. Whether it be by walkers, exposure, or people, unless he learns how it works now he won't live for much longer.

I unravel the case in front of him on the floor, it already has two machetes and two knives in it, so I go and grab a rifle, a dagger, an axe and a pistol from the supplies pile, before placing them in a row on the floor with the other close combat weapons. All the while, Gabriel doesn't regard me and only continues to clean.

"Pick one," I say quietly, motioning to them all.

He only shakes his head, obsessively scrubbing the same spot as he has been scrubbing for the last hour.

"You need to learn how to defend yourself," I tell him matter-of-factly. "We can teach you."

He finally stops and looks up at me, his expression tense and arched. "Defend myself?" he asks incredulously. "They said they'd go."

I narrow my eyes at him, his innocence becoming more and more concerning by the day, and the innocence will only get him killed. "They were liars, and murderers."

"Just like us."

"We protected ourselves," I reason confidently. "They wanted us dead... You're lucky your church has lasted this long." I pause, glancing at the intact building that we are all hiding inside of. But I know that before long it will only be another Lost Cause. Just like Home. The Prison. Hershel's Farm. The CDC. The Quarry. "You can't stay in one place anymore," I find myself continuing out loud. "Not for too long. A-an' once you're out there... you're gonna find trouble you can't hide from... You need to know how to fight."

It takes a moment, but my words prove to be enough to convince the priest, and I watch as he reaches forward and takes a machete from the case.

"Good choice," I praise truthfully, "but, you- you're not holding it right. You gotta be able to, _drive _it down," I instruct, demonstrating the movement to show him how to properly dispatch a walker. "'Cause sometimes their skulls, aren't as soft, an' you need to be able to-"

"I'm sorry."

While I was explaining, I could see the building hysteria in the priests expression, but I was trying to ignore it, hoping that he would pull himself together before he let it get to him. I was wrong.

Gabriel gulps, looking away to compose himself before standing and facing me. "I need to lie down," he says.

I nod, granting him the permission I don't have any power to refuse as he ambles into his office alone. I meet Michonne's gaze, pursing my lips as I realise how troubled she looks. But she shakes it off and curves her lips into a smile. I do my best to return the gesture, walking over to take a seat beside her.

"Think he'll get used to it?" I ask her.

Michonne sighs, rolling her head to look at me and shrugs, "Eventually. We all have to."

"Or he'll die," I say bluntly.

Michonne's brow knits into a frown and she tilts her head a little.

"Don't," I mutter, sighing irritably.

"What?"

"_That. _Looking at me like... _that_," I say. "Like you're afraid that I'm gonna go insane."

Michonne relaxes her brow, "I wasn't," she says. "I'm just... worried."

I cock my eyebrow, "Exactly," I grumble, looking away.

"No, I'm not worried about you being crazy, Carl. I'm worried about you becoming too used to it all. You're so young. I jus' don't want you to forget what it's like bein' a kid... not worrying."

"You sound like my dad," I mumble, rubbing my eyes tiredly.

"Maybe," Michonne agrees, nudging my arm. "But he's got a point. And it's not jus' you I'm worried about. I'm _worried _about everything. Them out there. You. Judith. Gabriel... Maggie, Glenn an' the others. D.C. But I'm like you. I'm used to the worry and the danger... But I can remember what its like to not have to worry about all of that. It may not seem that way, but I remember the good stuff."

"I remember," I reassure her, raising my brow and holding her eye contact. For a moment I try to remember the feeling of not worrying about anything, but I have to admit, I struggle, and my brow crinkles into a frown. "I-I... I think," I add, unsure now and suddenly realising that it's just the memories I remember from before, not how I felt while I lived them.

Michonne sighs, understanding my frustration.

I stay silent for a while, racking my brain for something that reminds me of that No Worry Feeling. But nothing comes to mind, no emotions, no reminders, no recollection. So I try something else. I think of something I have now that makes the worry go away. Really go away. It's probably pretty easy to guess, and I hate to sound like a mushy little sap. But it's true. Oliver is what grants me that reassurance.

My expression softens at my epiphany. But obviously, I don't voice it. Though, not much gets past Michonne, like she has told me before, and so she smirks at me.

"See," she says smugly, "I told you he'd be good for you."

I swear, a herd of walkers could crash through here and it wouldn't subdue the grin that suddenly spreads across my face. But I stay quiet, my reaction to her words enough of an agreement for her to understand, and not trusting myself to verbally give my input in fear of making a fool of myself with all of the things I could say I agree with her because of.

A short chuckle escapes Michonne upon witnessing my silent elation, but her expression slowly straightens to a more serious one. I settle, too, knowing that such an expression from her is something to pay my full attention to, as Michonne isn't a woman to waste her voice.

"I heard you two fighting. Last night," she says, wrinkling her brow that slight bit to show one, neat line in the middle of her eyebrows. "Everything okay?"

I swallow my suddenly dry throat, nodding. "It wasn't him who was yelling," I tell her shamefully. "I got mad. Threw, _ravioli, _across the room... Everything just... got a little too much. But we're okay. Really... Guess I'm jus' worried, too."

"Your dad trusts him, you know that right?"

I nod truthfully.

"Thinks of him like he does you. A son."

Again, I nod.

"And you know that he'll keep him safe in every way he can. Oliver will for to him, too. And seeing as they're all out there, havin' each other's back's like we are here... they'll all be fine. And they're gonna bring back Carol and Beth."

I don't nod this time, instead rendered unable to bring myself to and so I just hang my head and scratch my thumbs over my eyebrows.

Realising that we are done here, Michonne stands up and goes to Gabriel's office to check on him.

A long time passes in almost total silence. The only noise I hear is Michonne and Gabriel's mutterings, and Judith, her light breathy cooing as she drifts off into her noon nap, and the faint blowing of tree branches, brushing together from outside, and the birds and insects, chirping and creaking in their habitats. It stays like this, and I let it soothe me, embracing the quiet and letting it wrap around my heart to slow its beats, leaking into my lungs to slow my breathing, too, and when it is done its duty there, it trickles into every other muscle in my body to allow me to melt into the bench seat. Not asleep, just relaxed, as if I have turned off half of my mind to let it wonder among my imagination.

I see flickers and blinking slides of my memories flashing into my vision, some of them things I had almost forgotten I had even witnessed and all of them seem to move in chronological order before me.

Swaying inside of the tire swing on my front yard, reading my comic _Invincible._ Liking it so much that for my birthday I got a T-shirt from Mom and Dad of my favourite character, _Science Dog. _

Drawing a picture of a puppy in third grade and Mrs. Mueller liking it so much that she stuck it on the edge of the white board for a whole year.

Mom, kneeling on the ground in front of me and telling me that my father was shot and in the hospital.

Desperately and frantically begging the nurse to give him my blood to save him, and my mom having to pull me off of her and talk me out of the idea.

Shane, barging through our home and ordering us to pack our bags and leave. Telling us that Dad was dead, and watching Mom cry and scream until she was able to collect herself together again, burying her grief as she rushed to collect all of our family photos and albums and everything else she thought we needed.

The bombing of Atlanta.

Meeting Sophia and making a new friend. A best friend.

Meeting Dale, Andrea and Amy, and all of us retreating up to The Quarry with a lot of other people. Who, only two are still known to be alive today apart from me; Glenn and Daryl, and both of which I am not even completely sure are alive anymore.

Then Dad coming back... finding us again...

Camp getting overrun... losing the first, few, dozen people.

The CDC.

Losing Jacqui.

The Old People's Home.

The Highway.

Losing Sophia.

The deer before I got shot.

Waking up at The Farm, and meeting Hershel, Maggie, Beth, Jimmy, Otis, Patricia.

Finding Sophia and watching Dad put a bullet between her eyes.

Finding out that Mom was pregnant.

Causing Dale's death.

Watching my father kill Shane... and then me having to shoot his walker.

Losing The Farm.

Those eight months on the road.

Finding the Prison.

Everything with The Governor.

Getting a sister... but losing my mother.

Shooting that kid in The First Attack.

Losing Andrea.

Adjusting to everyone new at The Prison and having my gun taken away, exchanging my survival instincts for Playing Farmer, and trying so hard to enjoy it while I hated every moment.

Then... meeting him.

A small, unintentional smile grows over my lips, remembering how dismissive of Oliver I was the first time I saw him. His overwhelmed, timid face sticking out the back of that truck. I remember watching him drive by, wanting to hold his eye contact to examine him for what he was going to be worth to our group. I remember him averting his eyes, too introverted and submissive to hold my gaze, as if I had won a challenge like a lion keeping its territory.

"Was it him who taught you the machete trick?"

I startle into full consciousness as Michonne's voice snaps me into reality again as if she can read my thoughts. I stare at her for a split second, relieved that that isn't the case, rather that she is only continuing our conversation from all that time ago. I take in the curiosity on her expression, grateful that she has decided to humanely veer the subject from what everyone else is doing right now to spare my worry.

"I think it's jus' more of a case of trial and error. Picked up a few things from him, an' you with your katana 'n' stuff."

"Well, I'm glad to be of some kind of help to you," she understates.

I nod in sarcastic agreement, but when I take a moment I realise that she wasn't really joking. I furrow my brow, sitting up straighter to get a better look at her. "Michonne, you've been every kind of help to me. And to everyone else. You know that, right?"

She smiles, lifting her hand to rest it on my shoulder. "Yeah," she allows and is about to say something else. But that's when we swivel around in our seats at the screaming from outside.

"LET ME IN... PLEASE?! LET ME IN! CARL! MICHONNE! HELP! HELP ME!"

**Notes**

**Once again, congratulations to fictoinboy for your proposal! So happy for you! XXX**

Yeah, so, because I'm lazy I'm just gonna skip that whole bit that comes next. It wont change at all from what we all already watched, so, yeah, hope you don't mind, I just can't see anyone wanting to read something exactly the same X

I thought that the awkward conversation in the truck was an effective ice breaker for Noah and Oliver.

One of my friends told me that he thought it was funny that sometimes when he mentions that he is gay, people automatically assume that sexuality is all they can talk about with him, and he says it's always awkward, and he sometimes has to veer the conversation away and prove that he can talk about something other than sexuality. I thought it was a nice blunder that I could interpret into Noah too :) but I love his character, and so I wanted him and Oliver to be friends :)

Also, I thought it was important that Oliver noticed how straining this all is getting to Tyreese. I haven't gone into much detail of their friendship, and though they are not nearly as close as Oliver and Carol are, they still respect each other, and so I was glad that Oliver got off Tyreese's back a little when he noticed Daryl staring at him too. I f that makes sense. Because it's all about small gestures, like Daryl choosing to second Tyreese's choice in trading, because he knew that Tyreese wasn't happy too.

Haha, oh dear, I'm so obsessed with this show.

**Don't forget to check out Stale M&amp;M's : Stories of Oliver's Past **

**Preview: I really couldn't think of a preview on it. Sorry. Just, that it'll be out next week, and then the last chapter for a while will be out the week after :)**

As always,

Happy reading xx :_)_


	44. Crossed, Part 3: I'm Saving My Family

**The Flash Fanatic **Aw! Thank you!

**TheDarkerSide123 **Haha, yeah, I think I get the picture. XD Yeah, Noah is a great character. I'm hoping he and Oliver can be friends too :) And wow, thanks! I didn't think it'd give anyone the "feels". I actually was gonna delete that part. Thinking it would be a waste of time, but I had to give Michonne a little thank you moment. :D AWW I'm sure we'll be okay. I'll try my best to keep the tables from turning. X)

**loyalwolf **A DAY!? Fuck! That's amazing! Yeah, I quickly realised that writing any story is impossible unless you know the characters. Which is why writing Oliver's past is helping a lot with this. It's been so much fun developing his character and others around him. Thanks for the support. It really means the world!

**inazumahunter **Yeah, thank you for seeing that. I get so worried that splitting them up so many times will piss people off. But it's been okay so far, I just don't wanna push my luck. But yes, that was why I did it this time. Oliver and Carol are as close as mother and son. On the road since the girls they have become as close as Oliver has with Carl (emotionally, obviously not romantically, haha) And so Oliver kind of has no choice but to help save her.

**Guest **No, not late at all! You should put a small name like "Harry" or "Someone" so that when I reply to you, you will know who I'm replying to. I get worried that the anonymous guests will be confused because their ID's are the same as each others xx But fuck! Thanks so goddamn much for the support!

**Oliver's POV**

Three...

_It has to happen all to plan._

Two...

_All to plan. All to plan. Has to happen at the right moment. Can't go wrong. All to plan. All to plan._

One...

_Gunshot at noon._

**BANG!**

_All to plan._

Daryl, Sasha, Tyreese, and I watch from the roof of the warehouse as Rick and Noah stand in the ally way below. Rick quickly hands the youth the gun he had just used to give away our whereabouts. Noah takes it, and with one last nod he turns on his heel and darts towards the street. At the same instant, Rick hurtles back towards the warehouse and in a moment runs through the building and is up on the roof with me and the others.

_All to plan._

"Talk to me, Oliver."

"I see him," I whisper loudly to the Grimes, glaring down at the roads below that the roof is allowing us to observe.

Rick screeches to a halt beside me, his head swinging around to search for our bait. I point to Noah, watching him stop on the side walk and peer around the wall. He turns around and glances us at us, waiting for our signal.

Everything is silent for a long moment while we wait, ears and eyes peeled and every other sense tingling on red-alert.

_Listen... _

_Look... _

_Don't miss a thing... _

_Listen... _

_Look... _

_Don't miss a thi-_

"There coming," I blurt suddenly, hearing the faint growling of an engine coming from the street slightly to our left.

Rick's expression tenses, "You sure?" he asks, as he nor anyone else has heard it.

I nod without hesitating. "Yes," I tell him, realising that there is no time to doubt myself right now... not anymore.

He nods, looking to Noah and raising his arms, and I am short on his tail, lifting my arms up high in the air and holding them there.

Noah nods, instantly launching himself off of his good leg and hobbling as fast as he can back towards the warehouse. Not a moment too late, because the cop car speeds into everyone's vision and hearing. All of us duck out of its sights and I hear Rick let out a short, tense sigh of relief, realising that if we had waited a moment longer, like he thought, their wouldn't have been enough time for Noah to run. But the relief doesn't last long, as we have things to do.

Now.

_Another shot to give away his whereabouts._

**BANG!**

_All to plan._

I hear the decorated car's tyres screech as they turn the corner to fly down the ally, spotting Noah like we need them to.

_All to plan. All to plan._

We are on the bottom floor now, at the back entrance of the building, hidden out of sight but peering around the wall just enough to watch the car swing to a halt in front of Noah and knock him off balance, sending him crashing to the floor with a grunt.

I wince, feeling my own bones shake from watching the blow.

But Noah brings himself to his feet again, a little worse for ware, but alright.

The two police officers, a Caucasian woman with a loose bob in her wavy brown hair, and a bald, Hispanic/American man, leap out of the vehicle, raising their weapons and advancing on our comrade.

"Put it down, Noah!" the woman commands.

"Put the gun down!" the other officer seconds, and I notice the underlying sympathy in his order.

Noah's a decent actor, I'll give him that. So for a short moment he keeps up his running act, soon to relent and pretend that he is admitting defeat, doing as they say and placing Rick's gun on the ground.

"Hands up. Turn around," the woman tells him, advancing on him as he obeys her.

The male officer approaches him and I hear the zip of the restraints as Noah is held captive. "You let me know if it's too tight, okay?" I think I hear him say. _**He must be one of The Good Guys... **__Doesn't mean I trust him any more._

Rick gives the silent cue, and the five of us emerge from the warehouse, aiming our weapons at our opponents as we edge closer.

_All to plan._

"Thought you were smart, Noah," the woman underestimates him. "You think we wouldn't hear you?"

There is a short pause as the five of us come into full view to see them, silently creeping even closer to catch them by as much surprise as we can.

_All to plan._

"Where're those rotters you were shootin' at?" the male officer finally realises the distinct lack of undead threat.

Rick's whistle to my left is all they need to finally notice us. But it's too late, and even as the officers swivel around on their heels and train their aim on us now, they know they have lost the upper hand that they never had in the first place.

"Hands," Rick commands slowly, yet no less intimidatingly.

"What do you want?" the woman urges.

My heart pounds.

"Whatever this is, we can help," the male officer tries.

But we aren't having any of it.

"You do what we say," Rick tells them, "we don't hurt you."

It takes a moment, and my finger kisses the trigger of my glock, waiting for the command from my brain to tell my ligament to pull.

"Okay," the male officer proves he has a working brain cell in his head, opening his palms and putting his hands up. Closely followed by his female partner.

"Good," Rick praises reassuringly. "Now turn around. Put your guns on the floor and _kneel_."

I get a flashback of Gabriel's office door, hearing Rick say those exact words to Gareth and his Termites on the other side of it. _**Focus.**_

The two officers do as they are told, and Sasha and Daryl go about collecting the officers' weapons from them. I pull out my knife, walking over to Noah as he turns his back on me, and with a few precise slices against the plastic, I release him from his bounds.

"Thanks," he says, rubbing his wrists as he turns and walks past me.

I nod to him, glancing at Tyreese who is stood slightly behind me to my left. His eyes linger on my knife for a moment and I shift it's handle in my loose grip, almost as if it is too cold for my skin as we both painfully think of the child who owned it before me... the child who used it to kill her own sibling... But I focus on the next task, sheathing her knife and looking back to Rick and the others.

"We need to talk," he tells the defenceless officers as they are bound by Daryl and Sasha. "Water if you need some, an' food."

"Mind if I ask you somethin'?" the male officer asks as he is brought to his feet, Daryl's hand firmly planted on his shoulder, and when Rick neither confirms of denies him, simply glares, the guy takes it as a yes. "The way you talk. The way you carry yourself... Were you a cop?"

No verbal response, but Rick's silence is all the answer the man needs.

He gives a wan smile, panting from his adrenaline rush. "Believe it or not, I was too."

I want to call it a smirk, but it seems like more of a grimace, or a snarl. But whatever it is, it grows over Rick's expression and he nods slightly, before turning to face the rest of us. "That's Lamson," Noah informs Rick. "He's one o' the good ones."

_Well. Fucking fantastic that then, isn't it?! It's good to know that he isn't one of the bastards who take advantage of the innocent compared to the rest. __**Oliver, there's no time for your fucking sarcasm. Focus on wh-**_

I could hear the screeching tyres, but I was so caught up my petty irritation to realise that the noise wasn't only in my imagination, and in one moment the plan seems to crumble around us. It's jagged structure flaking away in the wind like the delicate web it barely was.

"WATCH OUT!"

My shout is throat tearing, drawing my gun as the unknown vehicle speeds around the alley and drives right for us! Adrenaline rushes through my veins and we all shoot at it, only to find that the front screen is bullet proof. I feel a hard wrench at my collar, and Rick has dragged me out of the way of the car and behind the cover of a few barrels and crates.

The back window smashes from either mine or Tyreese's bullet, and then the front-side, revealing the Caucasian, bald policeman, given his uniform, crouching out of shot and pointing the barrel of his rifle at us as he stops the car.

We fire in crazy frenzy, trying hard not to waste too much of our ammo as we hear and manage to see snippets of our hostages climbing into the back of the car, but the driver is covering them too well, and we can't risk popping our heads over to get a good shot with out getting our heads blown off. So we hear the tyres scream as he hits the gas and hurtles down more back alleys away from us, and I catch the white cross in the rear view window, just like the car that kidnapped Beth.

We crash out of cover, sprinting as fast as we can after them. Sasha, the sharp shooter she is, manages to flat out a back tyre, and Rick brings us to a slow as we round the corner after them, knowing that they won't get far with their vehicle like that.

The scene before us is one I have never seen before, yet seems all too familiar, bitterly reminding me of The Prison when it was attacked, and Terminus when we attacked it. Debris is scattered everywhere, burnt vehicles and singed buildings... and the dead... their active corpses littering the cement. The smell is different though. At The Prison most of the dead were fresh, same with Terminus, and so the blood and gore was more of an irony odour... but here, after so long, the stench stings my nose and burns my eyes, causing me to blink away the tears and breathe through my mouth.

Death.

That is the only way to explain the stench.

Pure and Merciless Death.

Walkers are everywhere, though, instead of them being up and ambling, they are emancipated, decayed, rotten, barely still moving after over a year and a half of lying there where they came to their demise. Their skin is sagged and melted from lying out in the Georgian blaze all-day-every-day, and I try not to look at them as they weakly reach out for the first flesh they must have seen in a while.

I follow Rick's gaze to the water tower above us just ahead, reading "EVAC HERE". I squint up at the unintentional lie written in bold on the side of it, thinking of all of the hopeful people that came here only to die in vain. The same people that are the very undead unfortunates I am walking past now.

We hear the snap of the car door opening, and then two heads that I recognise as Lamson and the woman running as fast as they can across the courtyard and down another back alley, still bound.

"Through!" Rick orders roughly, breaking into a run which we all copy. "Follow me."

Ahead of Daryl now and just behind the rest, I leap over hungry corpses, feeling my sheathed machete pat against my spine as I run and gripping my glock in my right hand.

It's the grunt I hear first, sudden, and the blow that causes it is hard and forceful, and I look over my shoulder as I run, only to screech to a stop as I realise that Daryl is no longer among us. Desperately, I look back to Rick and the other's, but they are already a good fifty yards ahead and to yell for them would only draw unwanted attention, and they can't afford to be distracted from catching the officers.

"_**No one gets left behind. But you gotta make sure you keep it that way."**_

"Shit!" I hiss at myself, and my mind reels as I fumble on my feet, letting out a growl as I swivel on my heels and go back for the Dixon. "Dammit dammit dammit dammit!" I mutter angrily as I run, struggling to think clearly as this is all definitely not going to plan anymore.

_**Pookie better be fucking dying right now!**_

_Oh no..._

Only now, as I see the situation he is in, do I truly realise how completely not amusing my previous thought was.

I have known Daryl for the best part of three months now, hearing the stories and legends of him about how he's saved more lives than I can count, and how he has a fierce reputation as someone not to mess with. So, I sort of had it in my mind that he was invincible, that no one could possibly get the better of him. Especially the way Patrick would often go on about him until it felt like my ears were bleeding. But only now, as I see him, do I truly realise how quickly a bad situation can go to completely unthinkable in moments.

Even for Daryl Dixon.

My eyes widen as I see the third cop, escaped and gone unnoticed, now pinning Daryl to the ground, choking him with two iron hands clamped around his neck as he shoves him into the cement, too close to two emancipated walkers that lay right beside them, snapping their jaws for Daryl's flesh as he tries to fend off the officer.

My mind convulses as I try to think of a way to help him, knowing that to shove the cop away would risk both of them falling into the walker's jaws, and if I shoot I could miss my target. So I stop in my tracks and aim at the walker closes to Daryl's arm, both men unaware of my presence since they are so caught up in wrestling and trying not to die.

But just as I'm about to pull the trigger, Daryl's hand blocks my target, and I watch in terror as his fingers enter the rotten creature's mouth. I anticipate his choked cry. I expect the blood to pour from his wound, adrenaline poisoning me as I keep my gun aimed at the walker, waiting for a clear shot of it and unable to do anything at all. But neither a cry or any blood ensues. Well, not from Daryl at least. Because what does happen is nothing I have ever witnessed before.

Missing its clenched teeth by milliseconds, Daryl gouges his fingers into the walker's eye sockets and violently wrenches its whole skull from its shoulders. Blood pours from the walker's torn body part, spinal cord and rotten muscle flying with Daryl's hand as he whacks the head against his living opponent's face. Degraded, melted flesh and bone hitting its fresher opposite, and the cop cries a grunt as he stumbles away.

Daryl hits him again, and I finally have a clear shot at the second walker and pull the trigger, hitting it square between its eyes mid-growl.

"Stop!" I bark, my eyes wide and tense and my jaw fixed as I train my aim at the officer. An image flickers over my mind, a flashback of back at Terminus, screaming that same order to that woman, Mary, when she almost killed Carol... right before we left her to the walkers.

Both men freeze, spinning around to face me.

Upon realising it is me, Daryl droops his shoulders in exhaustion and relief, panting and trying to catch his breath again.

But the officer is less fortunate. Reluctantly, but seeing that he hasn't a choice, he complies to me, "Okay. You win ass hole."

My arms shake unintentionally, the adrenaline and fear catching up with me. But I don't loosen my grip or waver my hold on my weapon, keeping it trained between his eyes as he sways and shifts his weight in his slightly dazed state. But my efforts seem to amuse the police man slightly, in some sympathetically sadistic way, and I watch a dry, tense grimace work it's way across his mouth as he holds his hands parallel to his head on either side.

"You're jus' a kid... They got you doin' their dirty work already, huh?" he asks, shifting his weight as he slowly stands up, his expression wide and afraid, yet menacing and dangerous. "You're not gonna shoot me... you're jus' as scared as the rest of us."

I hear running behind me, recognising the rushed footsteps as Rick. Though I keep staring at the cop, holding my gun a few feet from his head and refusing to let my fear take over me.

"Oliver," Daryl gestures for me to lower my gun, poising himself behind the man to ready himself to restrain him. I do as he says, and Daryl quickly grabs him and subdues him.

Swallowing, I holster my glock and glance behind me at Rick, who catches my gaze and holds it for a moment, worried and concerned as if to gauge my behaviour on what he will do next.

"He ain't gonna shoot you," Daryl grumbles at the cop, then glances at Rick and I. "Three's better 'n two."

Rick steps closer to me and I turn to face him, watching as he dips his head slightly in an attempt to reassure me.

"We got Lamson and the woman," he tells us.

I nod, relieved as I glance away and tense my jaw.

"Good," Daryl mutters, sighing and panting.

Rick takes my shoulder, gently pulling me to accompany him over to the others. He whistles, and the five of them emerge around the building to come back to us, Lamson and the woman cop dipping their heads and tensing their jaws or glancing nervously around. But all I feel is relief, letting a tired smile lift the corner of my lips as I exchange grateful glances with Tyreese, Sasha and Noah.

"What happened?" Tyreese asks, resting his hand on my shoulder.

"Daryl almost got jumped," I answer breathlessly. "But, he took care of it."

"Take your inhaler, Man."

"No, I'm good for now. Just, gotta sit for a minute."

"Alright," Sasha says, gently tugging the woman officer to walk with her, and I try to ignore the way the woman looks me up and down, as if she can't believe I'm even here or something. "C'mon, we'll get back. Take a few minutes to sort everything out."

"Yeah," Rick seconds the female Williams, leading the way.

_All back to plan... finally._

We all head back to the warehouse. The cops are given a drink and some food if they want it. Sasha manning the female officer, Tyreese with the guy who almost got Daryl, and Daryl guarding Lamson.

Rick assembles me and Noah, going over the plan with the youth again and again, and me listening silently as I make absolutely sure that I absorb and remember every detail, compulsively scratching at my fingers, and when that starts hurting I switch to pulling at my beanie every few moments instead.

The others enter the main room in which Noah, Rick and I are situated, all three of us briefly turning our heads up to regard them as they stroll into the room, before focusing on the plan again.

"Your friend, what's his name?" the female cop asks, and Rick ignores her as he continues to talk to Noah, encouraging Noah to ignore her as well.

But like usual, my curiosity gets the better of me and so I listen, staying knelt beside Rick but keeping my ears alert to hear her.

"Look, I need to talk to him, your plan's gonna get me and my friends killed," she says irritably when no one answers her.

"We're gonna make it work," Sasha says sternly.

"It would work if you had different cops to trade."

Rick and Noah are deep in conversation by this point, the very conversation which I have managed to fall out of in focusing on the officer so much, and so neither of the conversing men seem to hear the woman. But I do, and so does Sasha, Daryl and Tyreese, and they bring the six of them to a halt a few hundred yards away from us to talk.

"Dawn's running Grady to the ground," the female officer continues, "a bunch of us want her out, and she knows it. Pretty sure she knows we want Lamson to replace her, too."

"Dawn doesn't know that," I think I hear the other guy say.

"She might," the woman counteracts. "She's smart... so there's a good chance you can't make this deal work, and that'll leave us all dead. But if you let us go. We'll take care of Dawn ourselves... and we'll let your friends go and this is over."

My heart flutters at such a scenario, wanting it so much that it almost hurts to hear her say it with such confidence. But I grit my teeth and push the reassurance away. _Never let your guard down. Never.__** Stick to the plan.**_

"No," Lamson blurts, "we're not gonna do that."

There is a tense pause, only Noah's muttering audible to me until the woman breaks the quiet.

"Do you, _want, _to die?" she asks Lamson incredulously.

"No," he says in a tone that tells me he is done with all of the messing around, though he is gentle to her when he speaks. "I jus' need you to shut up right now."

I find myself actually wanting to hear his opinion, his patience and consideration towards us and his friends since I'd first seen him proving to let the man become slightly trust worthy in my judgement. But I don't act on my thoughts, knowing that he could easily be another Governor after all of this.

_You can't trust people anymore._

_**But like Carl said: Everybody can't be bad.**_

"You can make this work," Lamson says. "But you gotta be able to talk to her."

"Noah told us all about her," Sasha makes her confidence apparent without hesitation.

"I've known her for eight years, Man," Lamson tells her tentatively. "I know this woman. And my only interest, is peaceful resolution, not dying, and sleeping in my bed tonight... So please... Let me help you...? Please?"

That seems to settle it for them.

Daryl turns and gestures us to join their conversation, "Hey, Rick. You're gonna wanna hear this."

Rick and Noah nod to each other, ending their conversation to their satisfaction before standing up, and the three of us join with the rest of our group's conversation.

Lamson explained that Dawn would at first be reluctant to trade. But he was adamant that if we persisted she would cave and agree.

So it is set.

Rick, Daryl, Noah, Tyreese and Sasha all go about to prepare for the task in hand; gathering all of the weapons we can and sorting them to the appropriate handler, and I proceed to assist them, assuming that I will be joining Rick, Noah and Daryl who are planning to go and find an appropriate place to voice our trading proposal to Dawn at. But to my dismay, I soon realise that my prediction is wrong.

I catch Rick's glance at me as he motions for us to speak alone for a moment, and I leave a rifle on the floor and go and join him.

"I'm gonna need you to stay here with Sasha an' Ty, help 'em with the hostages."

I purse my lips and nod, refusing to show my reluctance to sitting this out. But I understand that I will be of more use here, helping keep an eye on the cops while the three of them are out scouting.

"That okay," he asks.

"Yes, Sir."

Rick nods, patting my shoulder and pausing a moment to harden his intense gaze, shifting his eyes between mine as if to examine me.

The confusion on my face must be obvious.

"Oliver," he says finally.

I only blink as a response.

"Earlier... while you were in the courtyard with Daryl?"

Again, I blink.

"The cop... were you gonna kill'm?"

_Oh... I get it now. _

I can see the bitter reminiscence and familiarity in Rick's eyes, knowing what his worry is about now. He has had to deal with this before. In his own son. When Carl shot that kid during The First Prison Attack, taking the teenager's life in cold blood as he surrendered, Rick took away his gun, feeling that in doing so it would spare the boy that he was at the time from any more loss in his humanity, wanting to preserve the last slithers of it that may have remained. Only now do I realise that Rick is worried of the same humanity crushing scenario taking place in me, too.

"No," I tell him truthfully. "I didn't have to... So, I didn't."

"If he'd killed Daryl? Would you of?"

I hold his gaze for a little moment, shifting my eyes between the ones my boyfriend has inherited, until I push my truthful answer from my mouth. "Yes." Despite Rick's intense stare, I let a reassuring smile pull slightly at one corner of my mouth. "But he didn't. So, I didn't have to."

A fraction of a nod in is all Rick responds with.

"Is that alright, Sir?"

Rick smiles. It happens slowly at first, and then all at once. "Yeah."

I smile too, just the sight of him so relieved being enough to make my heart swell with a kind of proud-ness in him and myself alike. But I avert my eyes, considering something in my mind a moment. Until I reach over my shoulder and pull off my machete in sheath.

"Here," I say quietly, handing the trusted weapon over to him. "You'll be needing it more than I will."

Rick begins to shake his head in refusal.

"No, really," I insist honestly. "They'll make you give up your gun for sure. But they might let you keep the machete. And, you've been using it a lot more than I have lately."

Rick lets out a long breath, relenting gratefully. But the stubborn Grimes in him has one last sentiment to give. "Have you got your gun?" he adds.

I smile and nod, "Yep." I unholster it and check how much ammo I've got. "Um, there's a few rounds left in it, but I've still got the extra magazine in my pocket you gave me at The Church," I say reassuringly, patting my pocket. "And I've got my knife," I add, hovering my hand over the thick, black handle, somehow, even in my relatively stable mood I am still unable to touch it when I am not in any urgency to do so.

"Good," Rick says, placing his hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently.

Just then, Daryl and Noah walk towards us, accompanied by Tyreese as he sees them off, leaving Sasha to keep an eye on the cops for a few minutes.

We all leave the building, and I nod and exchange glances with Daryl, Rick and Noah, as Tyreese continues to go over their plan one last time. But upon seeing that I am not needed here, and sweating as the sun blazes down on me, I bid them a brief goodbye, as a meaningful one seems too morbid to do in fear that I will jinx it and it will be a last goodbye instead, and then I head back into the warehouse.

It's only as I stroll into the large room after climbing the steps that I realise that we're short two people.

"Where's Sasha and Lamson?" I ask the two officers, getting the woman a bottle of water when she politely asks for it. I foolishly try to hand it to her, but I realise that in her bound state it is impossible for her to drink by herself, so with her nod to do so, I bring the bottle to her lips and carefully tip it for her to drink.

"They went upstairs," she tells me when she's drank a little, somewhat forcing her smile in the difficult situation we are all in. "Lamson said something about spotting a walker that he knew. Or, something like that at least."

I nod, half grateful for her efforts and the other half relieved that she was gracious enough to cooperate with me instead of trying something neither of us want to have to do right now. Once she nods to tell me she is finished with the drink I twist the lid back on and set the bottle down on the floor beside her.

"Oliver, right?" she asks.

I glance at her without moving my head, weighing out my options and finding no harm in nodding, so I do, and when I hold her gaze she returns the introduction.

"I'm Shepard," she says, then motions to the other officer. "He's Licari."

I nod to him and purse my lips into a small, tense smile, before returning my eyes to Shepard.

"That Rick guy," she says, "he your dad?"

I shake my head no.

"The Redneck?"

I frown slightly, shaking my head again.

"Where're your parents?"

My eyes narrow for a moment, studying her for an answer as to why she is so interested, but in failing to find one, I simply answer her. "They're dead."

She holds my eye contact for a moment. "You're alone?"

"No," I answer truthfully, relaxing my face. "We're all family here."

Shepard sits back slightly, almost doing what I think is a silent scoff as if to say that such a belief is ridiculous. _**I guess in Grady they aren't as quite a close knit group like we are.**_ But her expression softens somewhat, and she holds my gaze, watching it shift between her and the other cop for a moment as I try to study him as well.

"How old are you?" she asks.

"Fifteen," I answer, about to stand up and make myself busy with something else.

But she dips her head and shakes it in that incredulous manner that is beginning to get old. "You're too young to be in a place like this," she mutters.

I keep my mouth shut despite my disagreement, not allowing myself to play along with her in case she is only leading me on or trying to trick me.

She lifts her gaze to me upon my silence. "What _are _you doing here, Oliver? They're only gonna get you killed."

I narrow my eyes, tilting my head inquisitively to ponder why she is so reluctant to relate to mine and everyone else's motive to being here, and why she is so sympathetic about it all too. But it begins to trouble me, and before I let myself get irritated by her lack of faith in us I stand up and step away, turning from both police officers and taking a few strides toward the door leading to upstairs so that I can find Sasha and Lamson. When I get a few hundred yards away from it I stop. Pausing a moment to summon my voice, and then looking over my shoulder to the woman.

"I'm..." I let out a breath, arching my brow slightly. "Ma'am, with all do respect... I'm here to save my family."

With that, I don't wait for a response as I march towards the door that will lead to the stairwell. But it is as I place my palm against the swing-open door, about to push it and walk through, that I hear a loud smash, the violent noise shaking through my eardrums like an earthquake.

I freeze, my breath hitching as I hear frantic footsteps sprinting towards me. Then...

_. . . Oh, shit._

The crash is bone shattering.

A heavy, violent mass shoves itself against the door. So fast and so hard that there is no way for me to brace myself for it or leap out of the way or fight against it, and in a millisecond, the solid, metal surface slams into my body, sending me plummeting to the floor and sliding a good few yards across the room with a loud yelp.

The pain explodes over my whole body and I curl up against the cement, writhing in the agony of the harsh blow and trying not to pass out as every bone in my body shakes and screams in pain. But I hear his footsteps, flying past me, and I force myself to my knees, almost shoving myself to stand up and catching the last glimpse of Lamson as he hurtles out of the building.

"Augh!"

I clutch around my middle, choked gasps pushing their way through my lungs, and certain that Lamson has shattered every bone in my ribcage as every breath I take is agony. Pure agony. But I force myself to run, coughing and choking as I pull out my glock, ignoring the completely shocked expressions on Shepard's and Licari's faces.

I push open the exit doors, gasping and spluttering and wincing as I stumble out into the sun. "St-stop!" I shout, spotting Lamson making a bee line across the courtyard and out the way we came in this array of back alleys.

"Oliver, what happened?!" I hear Tyreese's shout as he sprints around the building towards me, followed by Rick, Noah and Daryl, and relief sweeps over me as I learn they haven't left for the scout yet.

"L-Lamson," I wince as Tyreese takes my arm to steady me, pointing towards the way Lamson escaped with my free hand and clutching my other full with my glock around my middle to try to subdue the pain in my ribs. "H-he got a-away."

In one moment, Rick hurtles off in the direction I pointed, unsheathing my machete which he had fitted through his belt loops, and I stare after him until I can't see him anymore.

"What happened?" Tyreese asks.

But I don't answer him. I spin on my heel and clamber back towards the warehouse, suddenly only one woman in the whole world on my mind, fearing the absolute worst has happened to her.

"Sasha!" I call, my heart racing irregularly as I hobble across the gravel.

Tyreese, Daryl and Noah realise my panic, and the four of us crash back into the building, Noah goes over to the two cops who are still bound in the places we left them, and Tyreese, Daryl and I bolt straight for the metal door and slam it open.

My heart races in my ears as we climb the staircase, adrenaline doing well to fend off my pain, but my lungs still convulse and gasp with every breath I take.

But everything freezes when we finally see the female Williams.

My heart stops and I hold my breath in terror, my mind reeling in grief as I see her sprawled limply across the cold, cement floor turned away from us, and I can see the cracked window above her form that was caused by the blow I heard earlier.

I wince, seeing Tyreese and Daryl tense up as they freeze too. But it doesn't last long. Not long at all. Because before I know it, the three of us rocket to the woman, our hearts and muscles screaming from the adrenaline as Tyreese drops to his knees beside his sister and rolls her over onto her back.

I see the gash on her forehead on the left side of her hair line and I flinch, my eyes skimming in a frenzy over the blood splatter on the floor and over her wound, the red liquid running slowly down her forehead as Tyreese pulls her to lay across his lap. I suddenly get a flashback, what feels like the hundredth one today, so vivid that a wave of dread consumes me. Picturing Michonne in a similar state as Sasha is now, just before The Governor came out of nowhere and slammed his gun into my temple. Half expecting the same thing to happen now, my head darting around and my heart pounding as I search for the monster to jump out on us. _**Calm down, Oliver. This isn't The Governor's doing. This is another threat. And right now you need to focus. If you don't it's going to cost yours and everyone's lives.**_

"Sasha?" Tyreese mutters, gently shaking her shoulders, "Sasha. Wake up, please?"

I crouch down to her and place my fingers against her neck, wincing and trying to stop the shake in my extremity as I search for any sign of life. Then, I feel a strong, relentless, beautiful heart beat, and I almost collapse with relief.

Tyreese has almost the same reaction, understanding my body language alone. He tries again to rouse her, "Sasha," he mutters along with a gentle pat on her shoulder.

"Mmmgh," escapes her lips on a drowsy, pained mumble.

"Sasha!" Tyreese gasps with relief.

She sits up, hissing through her teeth as her hand instinctively raises to her injury.

"Go easy," I tell her gently, hardly noticing my own injuries anymore even when my voice wheezes and my lungs force me to cough.

But Tyreese glances at me, "Where's your inhaler?" he asks, noticing my struggling airways more than I had, suggesting I use it with his head gesture to the pocket he knows I keep it in.

I take a dose, feeling the painful relief almost instantly.

"She okay?" Noah asks, rushing into the room.

"Yeah," Daryl says as he and Tyreese help Sasha and I to our feet.

I step away, limping, but knowing I need to carry myself to allow them to focus on Sasha as I can see she looks as if she's about to drop right there, but then again, I do too.

"Did the ohers know about this?" Tyreese asks Noah.

"I don't know," Noah shakes his head. "Oliver?"

He tries to help me walk, but I decline his help and answer him instead, too confused and worried to focus on my injuries yet. "I don't know. I-I don't think so. I was speaking to them before... They didn't seem like they knew."

"I'll take care of 'em," Daryl growls. "You sure you can walk?"

"Y-yeah," I say, straightening my posture, only to hunch and limp again, but we're through the doors so I just go and sit against a support beam.

My left knee throbs, along with my chest, left arm, both wrists and the left side of my face, as all body parts took the brunt of Lamson's ambush and I know will have some good bruises later, along with the shallow scratches covering them now from the slide across the floor I took. My ribs ache especially, the pain making me gasp when I breath or move too much.

But I ignore it as best I can, knowing there is nothing anyone can do.

**Carl's POV**

_Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_

The Church is gone. Overrun.

Gabriel snuck out, broke a hole in his office and ran off to the school Bob was taken to, only for the prest to come back and find himself being chased by the dead. Michonne and I saved him. Got him back inside. Having to break open the front doors and let the walkers in as well though. But we got out. Used the same way Gabriel did the first time through the office floor boards and then boarded up the front doors again before the walkers could get out.

Now we are just waiting, stood outside of the building and staring irritably at the rotten arms that are slowly but surely prying their way out.

It wont hold for long. Like I said... Nothing ever does anymore.

But we can't leave. We have no where to go. We need to stay in order for everyone to find us again. If- I mean, _when_, the doors open, we will have to fight, but with Judith here it is going to be so dangerous, so we'll need somewhere... anywhere for cover. But I'm not running, not until they come back. Not until my father is here and Oliver is in my arms again.

Just as my panic seeps into every crevice of my body, threatening to engulf me completely, it amplifies unbearably as the wooden plank we boarded over the door begins to crack.

I tense up, gripping my sister to my chest possessively. "Where do we go?" I ask worriedly.

But before I get an answer that no body has the knowledge to give anyway, I snap my head around to the road at the roar of an engine.

I startle, watching as a blood covered fire truck drives right into The Church steps, blocking the entrance.

But then a smile spreads over my face, so wide that it could run away with itself if I let it. Because I recognise the driver. A well-built, brilliantly ginger and scowling like always. Then, his accomplices, the Korean man and his beautifully familiar wife, grinning madly as they all lock their eyes on us, and every nerve in my body buzzes and screams with relief all at the same time.

**Notes**

This chapter got pretty interesting to me at a few times. It's really peculiar seeing how strangers perceive Oliver. Because the main group see him as pretty much their equal now, bar his age, (which automatically makes him someone to protect as it does Carl and Judith) but all the same they know what he's capable of. But with Shepard and Licari and Lamson, they only see him as a kid, telling him he'll be the one that gets hurt in this and doubting his actions. Plus, with him getting injured a moment ago, it's really becoming apparent to me that Oliver really is just a kid in all of this. Mortal and vulnerable and innocent in a world of death and danger and corruption :) Who knew I'd learn stuff from writing fanfiction? Ha!

Okay, I'm done now x

**Preview: Oliver is injured and weakened from his injuries. But they have one more task to do before they can save their friends. Grady turns out to be nothing they had ever expected. The very last chapter until the season finale comes out on TV. The coda. Then... everything will change. Haha, well, probably not everything. But lots of shit will, okay? Okay.**

**:)**

Don't forget to leave a review, thank you so much!

As always,

Happy reading xx :_)_


	45. Coda

**The Flash Fanatic **Thank you! I love your support!

**Prettyprincess45 **It's okay, Silly! You don't have to review xx Haha thank you!

**TheDarkerSide123 **Haha, please keep me updated to any flipping tables. And yes, please do check the other story. You'll learn a lot more about Oliver, and his relationship with Carl xx And AW! Thank you. That's funny, I thought it was just me that does that! Yeah, I was tempted to let Oliver slip up and kill him, but it would have screwed up my later plans. (Plans that you're about to read...) Agh, saving characters is such a delicate subject in this show though. Every death means something. Argh!

**BurningFireBird **Haha. So. Many. Typos. I'm the worst. I must reread my chapters at least four times before I upload, and I still miss shit. It's infuriating! Haha, feel lfree to set up a twitter account for them haha, I'm not sure how twitter really works, but if you do I'll like it, or, follow it? Is't that what you do? Ugh, technology! Thanks for the support!

**Oliver's POV**

I'm sat against the support beam nearest the others, trying not to breath or move as I attempt to recuperate from my injuries, or, at least, not feel them anymore.

Rick isn't back yet.

Daryl has just finished interrogating the other two cops about Lamson's escape and is now satisfied that they had no idea of his intentions any more than we did.

He glances at me, "Y'alright?" he asks as he steps in front of me, crouching down to look me over.

I nod, but the movement stings badly and my wince is terrible.

Daryl lets out a quiet grunt as he reaches forward and gestures me to tilt my head to the side, so I do as he wants, letting him examine the forming bruises on my face from the scrape I took across the floor.

"I'm fine," I say, but my voice betrays me and I erupt into a fit of painful coughs and gasps, cowering badly when my rib cage screams for me to stop breathing.

He narrows his eyes analytically and kneels down so that he is right in front of me, motioning his head up and gesturing to my arms. So I lift them, only able to do so to the extent that they are barely parallel to my shoulders. But I struggle from the pain. To help, Daryl pulls his crossbow off his shoulder and lays it beside me before carefully reaching over and aiding to hold my arms up for me, waiting a moment until I stop wincing from it.

"Okay?" he asks gruffly.

I hold my breath, as it is the only way to subdue the pain, and when it's almost bearable I nod.

"Cough a sec."

_What?! Why the hell would he tell me to do that?! _

I almost refuse, but the tentativeness in his tone is apparent to me even though he keeps it subtle, and quite frankly it surprises me. I have never seen him this hospitable towards me before, sure, we're on good terms and we respect each other, but it's never really been anything more substantial than that. I'd never considered that Daryl was really ever concerned for my well being.

So, gritting my teeth, I do as he says and cough on command, but it turns into a groany yelp when my ribs throb, forcing me to drop my arms and shallow my breathing. In the same moment, Daryl removes his grip on me, sitting back and chewing on his thumb as he thinks.

"You're not dyin', so tha's alright," he jests dryly.

I grunt a pained laugh, stopping myself and wincing badly when it hurts too much.

"Looks like you got a few cracked ribs. Can't do much 'bout 'em 'cept help the pain," he tells me, standing and going over to the duffel bag to rummage through it.

It's the same orange duffel bag, I realise, as the one I remember Carl using when we were moved to The Office Blocks, and the same duffel bag that he told me he, Michonne and his dad grabbed on the journey back from a run to King County once, taking it from a dead hitch hiker that had begged them for his life mere hours earlier, only for them to drive right past him. Carl told me that they met a man called Morgan that day too, said he and his son were the first people Rick met after he woke up from his coma. But Morgan stayed behind on both occasions so I've never put any more thought into him. Also, it's the same supply bag that I realise was at Terminus, as I remember the Termite woman who invaded The Church with Gareth was using it, she must have taken it from one of the others when they got to the train station.

_**Jesus, I think that supply bag is the most cultured object in the room! It's been everywhere! **_I almost grin at myself, watching as Daryl grabs a small white and blue box and comes back over, popping a few white paracetamol tablets out into my palm and handing me a water bottle.

"Pain killers'll help," he tells me. "You'll have a few more war wounds to add to your collection." With the scar on my lip, temple and abdomen I must look like I've gotten on the wrong side of a wild bear. "But in 'bout four or five weeks your body'll be healed on its own. You gotta make sure you keep breathin' normally though, an' if you needa cough then you gotta make sure you go 'head 'n' do, other wise you got more chance o' gettin' an infection."

"Thanks," I say gratefully, throwing the pills in my mouth and swigging them down with the water, wincing again, but dealing with it. I look at him, catching his eye contact and relaxing my expression instantly to try not to show the pain anymore, a little embarrassed by letting it show so much already.

"Tough son of a bitch y'are."

It takes me a moment to realise he's even talking to me, let alone joking with me. It catches me off guard, as I have never shared banter of any kind with the man before. But I let a smirk erupt over my mouth, cheering my dismal mood significantly.

"You, too," I tell him in a short chuckle that my ribs momentarily protest to, feeling a strange kind of honour at such a compliment from him. "How did you know all that, Sir?"

A subtle smile pulls at the corner of his mouth when I call him that again. One so unnoticeable that a stranger wouldn't even catch it, and it is only because I have known him for months that I do notice. But I also notice that it's kind of sad too. But, Daryl has never been one to show much emotion and so he answers me before he lets himself think too much about whatever it was.

"I've cracked my ribs more 'n I can remember. Y'learn a few things when you got no one else to help."

His eyes flicker over my expression for a moment and I nod, knowing that he has probably shared more with me than he particularly wants to, so with that, he turns away and glances back to the others.

"Ya'll right, Sasha?"

She nods to him as Tyreese finishes cleaning the sore-looking abrasion on her forehead.

**BANG!**

I startle at a gunshot not far away, and all of us listen intensely. Worried what, and who, the shot was for...

We listen for a long time, exchanging worried glances to each other until all of our heads suddenly swing around upon hearing a car engine park outside of the building, all of us tensing up. Rick has been gone only a few minutes, so I am friarly confident that it is him returning, as I doubt that anyone from Grady would have realised their officers were missing yet. But even so my heart races and I rest my hand on my gun, refusing to let my guard down.

Then, to our relief, a few moments later Rick does emerge through the door, a little to my surprise coming straight over to me.

"Oliver, you alright?"

I nod as he crouches in front of me and rests his hand on my shoulder, trying my absolute hardest not to move so that I don't wince in front of him, because his hand there most definitely doesn't feel like absolute agony.

Regardless, he notices, removing his hand and staring worriedly at me for a moment, dropping his gaze when I don't relent. "How 'bout you, Sasha?" he asks her solemnly.

She nods too.

Rick looks back at me, grinding his jaw and unsatisfied with our silent answers, but ultimately unable to do anything about them, so, with a scowl on his expression, he marches a little way away to talk to Daryl.

I can't make out their muttering, but by the tension in Rick's expression I know that Lamson is no longer breathing. Eventually, the two come back over to us, and one glance at everyone else's troubled expressions tells me that they have come to the same realisation as I have.

"He was a good man," Shepard says.

But the next words that escape her mouth snap my head around to stare at her, troubling me so much that the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

"He was attacked by rotters... Saw it go down."

I struggle to my feet, wincing a little but too concerned by Shepard's statement to care. Rick lets out a rough breath, realising, or, approving what she is doing. "You're a damn good liar."

"We're hanging by a thread here," Shepard snaps. "He was attacked by rotters - that's the story."

"You said the trade was a bad idea," Daryl says. "What changed?"

"Lamson was our shot," she answers, and I can see the panic rising in her expression. "So it's this or you go in guns blazing, right? With three of your men injured already, two of them only damned kids - one of them asthmatic... You don't want that."

"This's some bullshit you're spinnin' if things go south," Daryl growls.

"I know!" she barks, frustrated as she remains sat on the chair beside Licari. "I know, the good ones, from the bad... Let us help you?"

There is a short pause in which I use the opportunity to try and take a deeper breath like Daryl said, but stopping and wincing as I realise the pain relief hasn't set in yet. Because, damn, that fucking hurt.

Rick is watching me, and when I realise I feel like I've been caught cheating on a test. His brow almost arches in guilt, for he's letting what Shepard said about me get to him. So I try to look fine, keeping my posture straight and even resting on one leg, but I know he isn't buying it.

So he takes a breath, looking away to Licari. "What 'bout you?" Rick asks him, his voice gentler than I thought it would be. "You wanna live... How much?"

"Dawn's afraid she'll look weak in front of us," Licari states, his expression tired and frustrated. An expression that today has been cursed with, because all anyone wants anymore is a conclusion to all of this.

A finale...

A coda.

"Thinks it'll tip things against her," he goes on, "well... it will. She'll see this trade as a rip off, if she thinks you took out one of our guys... So it's a good thing Lamson got hitched by rotters."

It takes a moment, but eventually Rick nods, satisfied as much as he can be right now.

I'm not sure how to feel. The plan has been changed and re-changed over and over again, and I can't feel the relief I desperately want to because of the fear. If this fails it will cost the lives of everyone in this room and more...

Rick notices my worry, stepping over to me and gently placing his hand on the crook of my neck, a gesture that he usually does to Carl, as if to reassure me that we are going to do everything in our power to try not to let the worst happen today.

I nod, burying my fear. But like Noah said... there's a difference in trying and doing.

"_Shepard, Lamson, what's your twenty?_"

We all spin around to face Shepard and Licari, hearing the voice from their direction.

"Wh-?" Rick begins, his brow tensed and wrinkled in alarm.

"_I need status on that gunfire, do you copy?_" the female voice insists. But neither Shepard nor Licari's mouth move. "_Licari, do you copy...? Does anybody copy?_"

"What is that?!" Rick barks, marching towards her.

"It's our walkie-talkies," Licari explains, motioning his head to his belt.

"An' you didn't think to tell us about 'em before?" Sasha snaps.

Licari grimaces his glare at her. "You never asked."

I look at Rick as he shifts his weight, then I almost see the light bulb flicker on in his mind.

_~ A Few Hours Before Sundown ~_

A new plan is created.

Using Shepard and Licari's talkies, Rick got them to radio in and ask for a few officers to help them out with a survivor they had found. To prevent suspicion, they said they just needed someone to bring out a stretcher because they didn't have one, saying that the survivor had tried to jump across a roof and had most likely broken her back because she couldn't move it, and that their were rotters around and they couldn't leave unless they left her there.

It seems to be enough, because two officers have been sent out to find them on the top floor of a parking lot Shepard and Rick had agreed on. This will be where the negotiation will take place.

Shepard and Licari knew their colleagues' route, so it was simple for the rest of us to know where to keep watch while it all happens.

That's where we are now.

Rick, alone, but guarded, down there on the top floor of the car park a block over, waiting for the Grady police officers to drive right to him, and Sasha, Tyreese, Daryl, Noah, Shepard, Licari and I all up on the roof of the car park block in the building next over, situated directly behind our leader, hidden out of sight of anyone that doesn't already know we're here. Daryl and Noah are tending to our hostages, letting them rest and drink for a little while before this all goes down. Tyreese, Sasha and I are armed with long distance sniping rifles, fitted with a scope and silencer each. Our job is to keep our aim trained on the scene below, watching for walkers or to take out the officers if everything goes to shit.

Luckily, even in my injured and aching state, it isn't hard for me to do my job properly. So, leant against the roof edge wall, mimicking the Williams siblings in aiming my gun down at Rick, sure to keep my finger off the trigger, obviously, I see everything like a hawk, scrunching my left eye as I use my right to peer through the magnifying glass on my weapon, seeing the clear car park where Rick is waiting. My eyes scan over the vicinity, examining the vehicles scattered around the lot and spotting a truck with a pink shopping bag tied to the antenna, flapping and smacking against the Georgian breeze.

"You're beatin' yourself up," Tyreese tells his sister, cutting through the quiet City breeze. "Don't."

"I was stupid," she retorts.

I stay focused on Rick, not wanting to involve myself because I have no place in their conversation. There is a short pause and I hear something behind me, glancing over my shoulder briefly to see Daryl and Noah bringing Shepard and Licari to the middle of the car park behind us, setting them next to the car we used to get here. Noah nods to me, and I nod back, turning to focus on Rick again.

"At The Church," Tyreese says softly to his sister. "That guy you killed... his name was Martin."

I open both eyes at Tyreese's words, tensing up as I see, out of my peripheral vision, Sasha turn her head to her brother, dipping it in confusion. I hold my (already short and painful) breath, knowing that he is about to confess what he did... or rather, what he failed to do.

"We had 'im," Tyreese continues, trying hard not to let his voice shake. "Me, Oliver an' Carol, back by Terminus... Then... they went in after you all an' it was jus' me an' him... I said I killed 'im... I coulda done it, maybe I shoulda done it but, I didn't. I keep thinkin' about it... I remember when we were kids, you used to follow me around. Copyin' every lil' thing I did... What happened, to both of us, maybe it's 'cause we still the same... just like we were back then. An' maybe that's good."

"You're still the same," Sasha tells him. "And that is good... But I don't think I can be... Not anymore... Not anymore..."

There is a long pause, letting the two siblings mull over their conversation.

"They're coming," I mutter a moment later, suddenly spotting the cop car driving down the street to our right, turning left and heading into the car park to get to the destination Shepard and Licari said.

Instantly, Sasha and Tyreese snap their aim and focus back to the scene, our hearts pounding and our senses on red alert. Just the way they need to be. Daryl hears my alarm and hurries over, switching roles with Tyreese because the Dixon is a known better shot than him.

So Tyreese grabs Shepard's radio, using the frequency Rick told him to and bringing the device to his mouth. "They're headed towards the vantage point."

"Okay. Copy that," I hear the Grimes' reply, watching him through the gun as he pockets Licari's talkie and turns to face the opposition.

The officers drive up, spotting Rick and immediately stopping the car. They get out, aiming their guns at our leader and exchanging a few words I can't hear with him. Like I had suspected, Rick is made to give up his gun, but is allowed to be left with my machete around his waist. All the while I keep my aim on the guard's head to Rick's left.

More talking. More negotiation. More tension.

A walker ambles out onto the scene, but Sasha is quick to put a silent bullet through its skull.

Realising Rick is very much not alone, I watch the officer's expressions drop as they look around for us, becoming aware that their must be a lot of fire arms aimed at their heads right now, an assumption that they are very correct in thinking. But we are too well concealed, and they fail their brief search and focus on Rick again.

But their minds are made up, deciding that they want to keep their heart beat for another day. Rick takes a step back, gesturing his arms at them and a cop retreats into his car and radios Dawn.

_All to plan._

A few, long moments later, Rick raises his hand; our cue to come down now. So Sasha accompanies Tyreese downstairs, giving Noah the rifle, and he comes to snipe with Daryl and I. We'll have their backs, and we do, watching the officers as Tyreese and Sasha drive an old car that still had the keys (and undead owner) in there.

They get to Rick, leaving the car and standing beside him, now armed with his own gun again. He raises his arm once more for us, glaring at the officer's as they watch uneasily.

I get into the passenger seat of the second car we have, as Daryl and Noah help Licari and Shepard in. Then Daryl drives us down, emerging from the building and driving to our group, parking in the car park.

"Licari. Shepard," the African-American officer calls, "you alright?"

"Yeah," Shepard replies through the window, Noah between her and Licari.

"We'll follow you," Daryl tells them.

_~ In Grady ~_

The hallways are blank and eerie. The flickering lights of Grady Memorial Hospital dotted oddly along the ceiling, making my head spin and the room feel like it's slanting and swaying around us. The whole place is clean. Spotless. Making me feel like a fish out of water in my sweaty, grubby, survival attire as I follow the officers with my group.

_First__ Floor._

My ribs continue to ache, stinging and throbbing in the place they'd gotten the worst of Lamson's blow.

_Second Floor._

Sweat trickles down my face, part pain and part fear. The anticipation killing me as we climb.

_Third Floor._

My whole body is begging me to cough, but I have to suppress it and shallow my breath given our situation, despite what Daryl told me about a higher risk of infection if I don't breathe normally. But I can't show I'm weakened here. It's too dangerous. So I resist the urge to stop and cough my guts up or clutch my throbbing rib cage. I just keep walking, gripping my glock and forcing the shake from my hands.

_Fourth Floor._

I feel Sasha's hand on my spine, silently encouraging me to keep going, and I force myself to put on a brave face, knowing that she feels guilty about what happened with Lamson, thinking that his crash with me is also her fault. But I don't blame her at all, obviously, so I give her a reassuring nod and keep walking.

_Fifth Floor._

We finally stop climbing as the officers turn off the staircase. They allow Rick to take the lead as we get to a door, and he peers through it. I look too, my heart soaring as my eyes fall upon Carol and Beth instantly.

_**Oh my gosh. They're here. They're really here!**_

Beth has a few deep, stitched cuts on her face and a white cast on her right hand, and Carol is in a wheel chair, with bruises on pretty much every inch of skin I can see. But it doesn't matter. They are alive. They're fucking alive! Beautiful and here and alive! A shaky release of air escapes my lips and my relief is so powerful that the breath didn't even hurt. But they are surrounded by guards, all of them grouped in the middle of the long hallway waiting for us.

"Holster your weapons," I hear the same female voice from earlier command through Shepard's walkie-talkie, seeing the woman who spoke them and knowing that she is Dawn. She wears a clean officer uniform and has a flawless bun in her straight, black hair, a stern, tense expression fixed on her face.

Rick turns to us all, "Yeah," he complies, "you too."

All of us do as he says, putting our weapons in their holsters. Rick steps back, taking my shoulders and pulling me to accompany him as the two officers who led us here leave us to enter the hallway.

We wait a moment, before Rick gently takes Shepard and Daryl takes Licari. They lead the way, and we all go in. Noah, Tyreese, Sasha and I stay behind them, edging our way slowly toward our friends.

"They haven't been harmed," Rick tells them.

My eyes meet Beth and Carol's, a tensing twitch pulling at my lips in my relief and fear for them both.

"Where's Lamson?" Dawn asks.

My heart drops.

"Rotters got him," Shepard lies.

"We saw it go down," Licari seconds.

"Oh," Dawn nods, her expression tense and I can't tell if she believes them. "I'm sorry to hear that, he was one o' the good guys." She gives a little nod. "One of yours for one of mine."

Rick nods, "Alright."

I hold my breath as Licari is taken forward by Daryl, and in exchange, Carol is pushed by another male officer who is also carrying her supply bag. I freeze, watching as Daryl takes her belongings and then grasps the handles to push the woman back towards us.

My heart skips a beat as she comes into arms reach, and before she has even fully stood from her wheelchair I have wrapped my arms around her, wincing into her shoulder and overcome with relief as I bury my face there. She mumbles something to me that I am too swept away by to catch, and for a moment I'm slightly afraid that I won't be able to let go of her. But after an intense moment, with a silent pat on the back of my head and my silent nod into her shoulder, we pull away and face everyone, knowing too painfully well that we are not done here.

We watch as Dawn brings Beth toward us to exchange for Licari. My heart swells and tears prickle the back of my eyes as Beth and Rick reunite, and hope becomes me for a beautiful moment as they return to us.

"Glad we could work things out," Dawn says, staring at all of us.

"Yeah," Rick mutters, following after Beth.

The teenager meets my gaze, her eyes welling and her expression stunned. I'm in a similar state, tears of joy welling in my own eyes too as she takes my hand in hers and squeezes it reassuringly. Beth and I have always been on fond terms. I would often go to her for help with school stuff that we did in Story Time, English mostly, because she's always been fond of poetry and literature. Much like Penelope was. But our friendship became strongest the day I noticed the scars on her left wrist.

"_Guess it' p__retty pathetic, huh?" she said, thinking that I would think she was weak for them, but that wasn't true._

"_No," I told her truthfully. "It's not pathetic. I mean, you chose to live. You wouldn't be here if you didn't... That's not pathetic... um, pretty brave, if you ask me." _

I smile at her, letting those reassuring, light blue eyes of hers that stand out against the bland hospital hallway, hold onto my brown as she tries not to cry, her gaze so innocent and so knowing and so familiar that for a good moment I am so happy to have her and Carol back that I feel like I can explode from it right here.

Finally, she lets go of my hand and we all turn to leave.

My relief and elation is almost too much knowing that they will be alright now. Carol will be fine, and she'll stay now. She'll be okay. Really okay. Beth will see her sister again, soon, maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon when we all find Maggie and Glenn and the others again, and they'll be so happy when they find out. We will get to D.C. Somewhere safe like Eugene said while he makes The Cure and saves the world. I'll grow old with Carl, with Judith and Rick and everyone else there too, and... everything, absolutely everything will work out the way it's suppose to.

"Now I just need Noah... and then you can leave."

My thoughts shatter completely, and the air around me cracks and turns to ice.

_Dawn's words. _

_They weren't real._

_We're done here. _

_We have to be._

But it is apparent that what we have just heard was real, and we all turn around in disbelief, adrenaline poisoning our whole anatomies.

"_**No matter how many people are around."**_

"That wasn't part of the deal," Rick murmurs as he marches back to the place he was before during The Trade, all of us reluctantly and stiffly following him.

"_**Or how **___**clear **___**the area looks."**_

"Noah was my ward," Dawn hisses, her expression hard and completely serious. "Beth took his place an' now I'm losing her so I need him back."

"Ma'am," Shepard tries, sensing the fatal mistake that Dawn is making. "Plea-"

"Shut up!" Dawn spits, not breaking her cold eye contact with Rick, and it is infuriating. "My officers put their lives on the line to find him... One of them died."

"_**No matter what anyone says." **_

Noah begins to step towards her, admitting defeat to stop any more conflict arising. Anger bubbles in my veins and I scowl from him to Dawn, about to shove Noah back and growl at the crazy bitch who thinks she owns him like a slave driver. But Daryl goes ahead and does it for me.

"No," he hisses, pressing his palm against Noah's chest and stepping forward between him and the insane woman. "He ain't stayin'."

"_**No matter what you think."**_

"He's one of mine you have no claim on him," she says factually. _The fuck is her problem?!_

"The boy wants to go home," Rick explains incredulously, "so you have no claim on him."

"Well then we don't have a deal."

"The Deal is _done_!"

"_**You are not safe." **_

"I-It's okay!" Noah barks, barging forward desperately.

"No," Rick growls, stopping the youth. "No!"

"I gotta do it," Noah counteracts, pulling out his gun from his jeans and handing it over to Rick. They exchange a painful understanding, and the rage in me increases, making my fists ball up, my right hand edging towards my gun without even realising it.

"It's not okay," Beth seethes in her fury behind me, and I hear her stepping closer towards the friend that has helped her since she arrived here.

My heart sinks.

"It's settled," Dawn dares to utter to her captive as he bitterly rejoins her.

"_**It only takes one second." **_

"Wait!" Beth snaps, stepping around me.

I don't try to stop her, knowing that it will only be more cruel to prevent her from saying goodbye to Noah, and everyone else comes to the same conclusion. So I watch, gulping back the rock in my throat as she envelopes Noah in her arms. He lets out a muffled wince, but gratefully embraces her back and smiles sadly into her shoulder, mumbling his last, private farewells to her.

Dawn watches proudly, boiling my blood in hatred for her.

"I knew you'd be back," she mutters to Noah.

"_**One second." **_

Beth, who has always been a woman that I have relied on to lift the mood in a dim environment, whether it be with her beautiful singing voice of her soft smile, it is just the way she is. A beacon of hope. But, not right now... Right now she is filled with rage, more of it than I have ever seen in her. So powerful that it makes her posture rigid, her jaw clenched, her cheeks red and her eyes shining with her anger.

She breaks away from Noah and squares up to Dawn.

". . . I get it now."

"_**And it's over."**_

With no warning, and before anyone can anticipate what is about to happen, Beth lunges. The hidden pair of scissors no one saw concealed in the cast on her wrist suddenly striking at her will, and with the same awful noise that I once heard from Mika as Lizzie stabbed her, the scissors are firmly lodged into Dawn's left shoulder.

Two individual shots are fired.

One right after the other from the same source.

In the same moment, Beth collapses to the floor with a crimson hole through her skull. Her blood splatters over my face and my whole body flinches in horror. The loss is like an atomic shock wave, almost knocking me off my feet as the blow of her murder tramples every crevice of my soul, and for a while, all I can do is stare in catatonic outrage.

"Please," Dawn begs, remorse flooding her face as she stares in terror at us, "please. I didn't m-"

But I hear Daryl's sob as he draws his pistol, and with the merciless bullet from it, Dawns is shot right through the centre of her forehead before my eyes.

Everything feels static, and everyone draws their weapons on each other. But something paralyses me and my arms refuse to work. So I just watch, terrified and broken and mortified.

_**Wait. Oliver...?**_

"HOLD YOUR FIRE!" Shepard roars, her voice erupting through the clicking of fire arms, everybody ready to release Hell on everything left. "It's over! It was just about her... STAND DOWN!"

My breath becomes shallow and my expression crumples, letting out a sob that suddenly chokes itself in my throat.

_**Oliver... there's something...**_

Too devastated, I just watch, rigid and mortified as Carol coaxes a weeping Daryl away from the Grady officers, cradling his head in her arms as she buries her face into his neck and they walk past me.

Another sob escapes my lungs, but again, it chokes itself.

_**Oliver... please... **_

_**Something's... **_

_**There's... something...**_

It's peculiar.

I'd always thought that if I was injured, whatever it would be, I would realise instantly. Finding it hard to believe that I could ignore something so substantial that is happening to me. Easy to assume, right? Well, seems not. Because again... like so often... I am wrong.

So, very wrong.

Maybe it's the adrenaline. Maybe it's the pain killers. Maybe it's the shock and grief ripping into every part of me. Or maybe its just that I sort of believed that nothing like this could happen. Just like with The Claimers, and Mika and Lizzie, and Bob with the cannibalistic Termites, and everything happening right now...

But this... maybe I just didn't want to notice...

Not until now.

It starts as more of a draining feeling. At first. Like a morbid, intense alarm ringing in my whole body, trying desperately to tell me that there is something very, very wrong. I choose to dismiss it, thinking too much about the despair tearing my heart apart at the sight of my long lost friend now dead on the lino in front of me, watching her blood spill over the floor from the bullet hole in her cranium.

But the draining sensation... it begins to twinge slightly, intensifying in that strange, morbid alarm, and it pulls, or maybe presses at my chest near my shoulder. Until I relent, letting my gaze fall to the source of the discomfort.

That's when I finally see it.

The place that Dawn's stray bullet has found its new home.

**...**

**"You" by Keaton Henson (Do it, just wait a second and put this song on while you read! Seriously!)**

**...**

**Rick's POV**

"You can stay," Shepard says.

I shift on my feet, staring in shock down at the young, innocent, lost girl I have known for over a year, the horrible loss punching me in the gut as I feel the warmth of her blood trickle down my cheek and neck.

"We're surviving here," another officer says solemnly.

"No," I look up to them, my voice catching. "An' I'm takin' everybody back there who wants to leave," I tell them, tears spilling from my eyes as I fight my devastation. "If you wanna come with us, step forward now."

I wait a moment and no one moves, all of them choosing to decline my offer. So I nod in acceptance, a moment passing as I try to keep everything together.

_Focus._

_Come back from it._

_Be The Leader I never chose to become._

_For Judith. For Carl. For Oliver. For my family._

But then, Shepard's gaze moves to something behind me, and I watch in confusion as a look of devastation floods her expression. I glare at her, waiting for her to explain herself because in my opinion she has no place to be upset over what has just happened here.

But then...

" Rick. "

The voice I hear is so soft and quiet that for a moment I think it is from a young child. Sounding so much like the twelve-year-old boy Lori and I raised before the outbreak that I think it is only in my imagination. As that is not what my son sounds like now, what with his lowered and more mature tone. Also, its source was from someone who said my name, not addressing me as a father like Carl would have.

For a split-moment, I almost dismiss the haggard call, thinking that it was just in my head, induced by my distraught, murderous state. But something instinctive tells me that I need to address this, causing my heart to pound in my chest in worry and dread, a force unknown to me somehow pulling me to turn around and face it.

My eyes draw to Oliver instantly, something about his tense posture with his hunched shoulders and stunned expression.

The familiar brown of his eyes meet mine, his gaze too tired and too afraid and too disturbed. But it's the red I see next, catching my eyes, and they dart instantly to the growing colour spreading too fast over his dark green flannel shirt shoulder just below his left collar bone.

"Rick."

My name falls from his breath again, his voice crumbling from his trauma.

I am helpless, overcome by my horror as I watch the boy bleed out, his arms hanging limply by his sides, twitching as he tries to summon the strength to reach out to me, but he sways, his knees buckling underneath him. Adrenaline surges through my body, switching me to fight-or-flight as I clamber to catch him, my heart and gun dropping to the lino floor before the poor boy has a chance to do so as well.

"Oliver!" scrambles out of my mouth, dropping to my knees with him in my arms as the teenager grips at my T-shirt with bloody hands, his breath hitching and his whole body beginning to convulse violently with every laboured breath he struggles to take.

"No!" I hear Carol cry.

Dread strangles my sobs, and I rush desperately to unbutton Oliver's shirt, pulling down his top at the collar to reveal the bullet hole. Blood spills from it with every gasp or choke the boy emits, the red too fast and too constant, soaking further into my hands as the warmth streams from his body.

"Ohh, no, no, no!" I moan as my sorrow amplifies unbearably, hearing Tyreese and Daryl as they rush to help me, crying and sobbing in the overwhelming, terrible situation we are all in.

My expression turns to fury, contorting as I watch Oliver's blood spill and mix with Beth's, slowly spreading down the hallway towards the cause of all this.

"HELP HIM!" I roar at The Hospital Residents.

All of them watch helplessly as they witness the horrible events taking place before them, and more alarmed faces dressed in dull blue overalls pop out of doors leading into other rooms of the building.

"HELP HIM! Pl-please...?! PLEASE!?"

A man steps forward, my devastated mind managing to recognise him from Noah's description as the only doctor of this place. The man who is going to save Oliver's life even if it kills me.

Oliver begins chocking, weak fits of chest convulsions pushing themselves from his struggling lungs. My brow arches, tears rolling from my eyes as I watch him struggle for air, throaty sobs erupting from his lungs and along with them, blood pulsating from his gunshot wound.

"Don't you die on me, Son! Don't. Don't!" I mutter pointlessly at him, putting as much pressure on Oliver's wound from what I remember having to do to my own son, terrified as I am forced to relive the awful memories of the day we found Hershel's Farm.

He grips my shirt with bloody hands and a choked cry escapes him, clenching his eyes shut in his agony. His mouth tenses, and then all of a sudden, as if it took every ounce of his strength, he draws in a deep, trembling breath and opens his eyes, forcing himself to speak.

"C-Ca... Carl."

My heart heaves for them both. "Stay with me, Oliver," I growl a hysterical sob at him, clutching his wound to try to stop the flow, everything feeling like it is collapsing on itself. "Don't you die on me!"

But his eyes close, and his head rolls to the side, falling limp in my shaking arms.

"No... No..." I'm whispering now, so horrified that my lungs refuse to cooperate with me. "Oliver. N-no. Wait. W-wait."

I hear muffled voices, and then, before I have time to think or move or cry or scream, Oliver is lifted from me and placed as carefully as Tyreese can onto a hospital bed that I realise had been pushed here by The Doctor.

"Is... is he dead?" I'm asking anyone who will listen, moaning my question over and over again like a mad man. But no one will answer me. So I watch in a daze as Oliver is carted away, Tyreese by his side and keeping a desperate and protective watch over him as he accompanies The Doctor further into the hospital.

It's the boy's hand that my horrified gaze is glued to. The pale extremity, dripping with his blood, hanging limply and delicately over the stretcher, jolting with every push and movement.

My terror engulfs me, seeing flashes of my son bleeding out as Otis' bullet began to drain him of his precious, innocent life. The vivid memories roll through my mind and I have to catch myself before I fall, clutching to my knees and resting forward to stop myself from stumbling.

Daryl weeps silently beside me, crying for the loss of Beth. I try to console him. But I have come to learn that consoling others when you are equally as devastated is almost impossible, so my gentle hand on his shoulder somehow turns into a fully fledged embrace, huffing and sobbing into each other's shoulders as we mourn and panic and cry.

I feel someone grip my shoulders, turning around to see Carol's wrecked expression through blurry eyes.

"Go," she whimpers, pushing me towards the way Oliver was taken. "Rick, g-go to him. H-he needs you."

I don't hesitate, finally hearing what I need to do and instantly acting upon it. But my actions are not simply from the responsibility I know I have for Oliver, but of my duties as a father to him. Regardless if it is merely an adoptive status.

I step quickly and carefully around Beth, breaking into a shaky run as I follow after them, wincing as I see the trail of red dots that will lead me to Oliver. Dread leaks into every part of me, making my blood feel like lead, fearing how on Earth his life can possibly be saved from this, and what it will do to Carl when he finds out, and how I will tell him what I have let happen. What I have now let happen again.

**Carl's POV**

Hope.

For hours now it's been radiating from the deepest parts of my soul.

I watch in anticipation from the fire truck window as we speed down the road towards Atlanta. Familiarity rings in my memory as I see the tall skyscrapers ahead, remembering them from when Shane, Mom and I travelled this way a million years ago. Though, we never got this far because the City was in gridlock.

Glenn, Maggie, Tara, Abraham, Rosita and Eugene came back. They were the ones to crash into The Church entrance and save us. We told them about Beth and everyone else, and they told us about Eugene...

He lied. There is no Cure. It's just us.

So now, with nothing else to lose other than our family, we are going to help them. Now with more fire power and more people that are willing to fight for it.

I glance over at Tara opposite me. She lets a soft, reassuring smile spread over her mouth. I return it, cradling a sleeping Judith in my arms. She fell asleep almost immediately after the engine roared into action, melting into the rumbles and the vibrating structure surrounding us until it sent her into her slumber. It worked almost as well as stroking her face does.

Abraham slows the fire truck as we enter The City's streets, leaning forward in his seat in anticipation to find the hospital.

He takes a turn left, and then another, then right and then I lose track of where we are completely as we delve deeper into the dead City. Oddly enough, we hardly see any walkers, and the ones we do see are left so far behind that we needn't worry about them following us.

"We should go around the back," Glenn suggests.

"Yeah, if we find the fuckin' place," Abraham agrees. I have come to realise that Mr. Ford is a man to cuss out mid-sentence for no reason, and purely because it is so pointless, it makes me smirk at Tara and Michonne in amusement.

But then I spot the hospital symbol behind Tara's head, over the roof of a building several blocks away.

"There!" I blurt, pointing to it and not believing the luck.

"Alright!" Abraham grins in relief, driving a few blocks to see the edge of the building we have been looking for, glad that we are still a good few blocks away from it and out of sight from anyone inside that might be looking out the window.

A few minutes pass as we try to figure out where the appropriate place will be to sneak in, eventually finding a back alley that leads to the staff driveway of The Hospital.

We go slowly at first, trying to make the engine as quiet as possible. All our weapons drawn and readying ourselves if we see any signs of the living. But we drive all the way to the gates... not seeing a soul.

Something changes.

It's too still. Too quiet. Too barren... The atmosphere begins to darken. Not visibly, but mentally. Something so strong and powerful, yet ultimately unbeknownst to all of us, and it engulfs the fire truck, silencing all of us in it as our hearts race and dread suddenly creeps into our bloodstream.

Abraham puts the truck into park directly parallel to the back entrance to Grady, and everyone files out of the vehicle, every type of bad alarm silently ringing from everything around us.

"Something's not right," Michonne tells me sternly. "Stay here."

I almost protest, but then I remember that I have my sister to care for. So I slump back into my seat, tensing my jaw but nodding for Michonne to leave.

"I'll be right back," she tells me reassuringly, and then closes the door behind her, leaving me alone with Eugene, who has been out cold the whole journey, and quite bluntly, I have been purposely ignoring him since I learnt of his betrayal a few hours ago.

Judith starts to cry in my arms, disturbed by all the tension. I listen over her as they all head to the hospital, trying not to think about anything as I coo Judith to settle.

"Shh, Judy. Calm down. It's gonna be alright," I tell her as I run my thumb down her nose.

She quietens, and the moments pass in thick anxiety. So I listen carefully as I hear a few stray walkers get dispatched, and then a door opens. I think at least.

I'm about to turn around and peer out of the window, but then... it's a noise. A terrible noise that I have never heard before. A guttural, screamed cry from Maggie.

"BETH!"

I freeze, my eyes widening as every muscle in my body tenses in terror. She screams again, and instinctively I swing around in my seat and rub my hand over the window of the truck to remove the grime and dirt from the glass.

Conflicted-heart-racing-relief sweeps over me as I see Sasha walk from The Hospital and into the driveway, followed by and Tyreese and Carol and Noah.

But what I see next... I wish with everything in my soul that it is in my imagination. That this is all a bad dream. That I am still led in Gabriel's office, curled up in Oliver's warm, loved arms.

But it is real, and it crushes my soul.

I watch as Daryl carries a limp and very much dead Beth Greene in his arms. Her blood, even visible to me all this way away, spilling from the gun shot wound in her head and staining her blond hair crimson as her head rests against the sobbing Dixon's chest, his own expression hung and contorted in sorrow in a way I have never seen it, and it chills my blood.

My breath hitches and tears materialise as I watch Maggie fall to the floor, screaming her cries as she mourns her sister, and I search in frenzy for my father and my boyfriend who have both failed to exit the building yet. But I keep scanning for them, searching for my father's familiar face, Oliver's grey beanie hat, waiting for them to follow behind everyone else.

But they don't leave the hospital.

I move on instinct, my mind blurring over in my panic as I clamber from the truck. My legs turn to walker mush as I amble toward everyone. Somehow managing to bring Judith with me, but only just gripping her tiny, crying body in my arms, clinging possessively to her against my chest, my expression blank as the hysteria builds in my mind, brewing and ready to boil over.

I get to Michonne, "Wh-where...?"

Michonne takes Judith from me, rushing to do so when my sister begins to fall from my weakening hold. I don't even think as I clamber for Carol, staring in horror at Daryl as he carries Beth's body.

"Wh-where are they?" I blurt out in a whine as I get to the weak Peletier, tears spilling from my eyes as a numb vacancy begins to burrow into my heart, spreading outward to everywhere else.

But Carol starts crying, placing a hand on my shoulder as she parts from Tyreese, and I see the blood on his shirt and hands that I realise doesn't belong to him.

"They're dead?" falls from my own lips, the words feeling like a knife slicing through my throat.

Carol shakes her head no, or maybe, dips her head yes, I'm too scared to decide. "They're on the fifth floor," she mutters as she cries, "someone'll tell you where they are. Go."

My heart stops, but I do as she says, practically falling my first few strides as I fly for the building, crashing through the doors and letting adrenaline and terror move my body on instinct.

Electricity is what shocks my system even more than it is already, the bright, artificial lights flittering over head and making my vision fuzzy and hallucinatory.

"Oliver," I mutter when I see snippets of him... beckoning me further down the corridors, but then disappearing before I get close enough to touch him, to swallow him in my arms like I so desperately need to. So I keep running, reading a hospital sign overhead that reads "STAIRWELL" and making a sharp turn, causing me to lose my footing and slide across the lino floor, slamming myself into the wall in my rush and ripping the sleeve of my flannel shirt. But I ignore the cut I have cause on my right elbow, crashing through the door and sprinting up the staircase, running around and around and around after Oliver's imaginary figment until my head spins and I think I will hurl.

"Oliver!" I cry again after him.

My heart races and my panic makes my head pound. But I finally climb to the fifth floor, hurtling through the door and crashing into the hallway wall opposite me. I pant against it, pushing myself off of the vertical surface and seeing a small blood splatter from my elbow over it. I spin on the spot, heaving my breath and roughly wiping my streaming tears and sweat from my face as every muscle in my body screams for rest.

"DAD!" I bellow down one end of the hallway, turning and cupping my hands to my mouth to shout down the other end. "OLIVER!"

Something moves in the corner of my eye and I spin around and aim my gun at it, reacting instinctively.

"NO! DON'T SHOOT!"

I cry a gasp when the person I see is alive. An old man in bleak, blue, hospital overalls, his eyes wide and his hands raised in terrified submission, causing him to drop what I realise is a strawberry. But I don't think about that as it rolls on the floor and stops when it hits my odd shoe, instead, I heave my breath, expecting my heart to explode from beating so violently.

"Don't shoot me!"

"WHERE IS MY FAMILY!"

I scream at him, marching towards him, my expression contorting in rage and fear and pointing my gun at his temple, letting my index finger hug the trigger like an old, murderous friend. Tears cascade down my cheeks, and the man stutters with his words, fuelling my fury.

"TELL ME WHERE YOU'VE TAKEN THEM!"

"They're in the operating room! Please! Don't kill me!" he cries for his life, hunching over in his terror. But it's as I follow his movement with my fury filled eyes that I finally see the pools of red smeared on the floor.

Blood.

Fresh blood.

Evidence of it spilling from three individual sources.

My gun arm falls to my side, "W-wh-what happened to them, p-please?" I mutter, every front I was putting up crumbling around me in my dread, exposing the terrified, weak child in me against my will.

"I-I heard the shots," he mutters, sweat streaming down his pale, white, bearded face as he turns on his heel and half runs down the hallway, motioning me to follow. "Come with me!"

My expression widens and contorts at the same time, enraged again but too panicked to raise my weapon. So I follow after him, that numbing feeling growing in the pit of my gut, but knowing that I won't help anything by threatening him. But the man seems to realise this and is quick to explain as he goes.

"I was in my room," he pants as he hurries, turning left into another hallway as I rush to follow, trying hard to bury my shock and dread, "came out when the shots rang and I saw Dawn and Beth dead. A man offered for us to go with him-"

"My dad?" I mutter shakily.

"White guy with a beard and a red machete," the stranger describes.

_Why did Dad have Oliver's machete?_

Ignoring the horrible answers rolling through my mind, I nod in confirmation and keep following him. The question builds in my chest, wanting so much to know the answer but unbearably terrified to find it out. But before I coax it out of me, the old man answers it.

"He stayed behind with his son..." the man's expression suddenly becomes too sympathetic as he takes in my terrified face, and I feel the blood drain from it. "I'm so sorry, but it's your brother," he mutters, putting two and two together even if his prediction is misunderstood.

But I don't care about that. His words make everything freeze in me, and my throat closes on itself. "Please?" is all I am able to say, not even knowing what I am asking for anymore. Just needing him not to say it... to not to say what I can't bear to hear... to not to say what will push me over the edge and into insanity.

He stops at a door, pressing his palm to my chest to stop me too.

"Son... he was shot."

My knees knock, my mouth hanging agape in my terror. But I don't reply to him. I stumble past him and push the door open, pure dread engulfing every crevice of my anatomy.

The noise attacks me first. The dorm is crowded. More crowded than any room I have been in since The Prison at least, which I suppose isn't really that crowded at all. But people rush by me, hardly noticing as I amble through in search for my family. Every yell and mumble and footstep and cough drowning into a blurry muffled drone. Only one sound clear in my ears... a beeping... stabbing me in the heart every time I hear it.

_**Beep.**_

Officers and more people in blue overalls crowd the room, rushing about and yelling things I can't make out as I stumble through like a walker.

_**Beep.**_

Someone grabs my shoulder to stop me, but I walk through them like a ghost, only, instead of that I simply push them away with titanium strength that I don't bother to apologise for or care about.

_**Beep.**_

Relief floods my terrified mind. It's Dad. He's here. Stood in a doorway, blocking it as he stares in a daze at something I can't see yet. He doesn't notice me, so I think I call out to him. Only, my voice doesn't work, the noise choking as it tries to come out of me.

_**Beep.**_

He crashes into me and swallows me in his arms. His embrace like none that I have ever experienced with him before... and it scares me senseless.

_**Beep**__._

When he finally pulls away he cups each side of my face, telling me something, but his words are distant and muffled. I see the tears streaming down his face over tears that have already dried there. But it's the wet against his hands that is most prominent. Warm wet. Covering his extremities and running down my face.

_**Beep**__._

I pull his hands away and see the bright crimson blood on them, feeling my cheeks as they seem to burn cold at the sensation of the liquid drying on my skin, and when my eyes roll back to my father I take in the blood splatters across his pale face, and the smeared blood over his shirt and collar. I try to ask who it came from, but I hear my voice only as a distant mumble.

_**Beep**__._

I heard his answer... Yet... I have to refuse to acknowledge it. It can't be true. So I push Dad away, blinking and panting and shaking my head in horror. Everything slowing, but moving too fast for me to comprehend.

_**Beep**__._

A man with a white overcoat stands with his back to me, bent over a hospital bed with blood spilt over the floor and on the sheets and smeared over his coat. I see the life machine, recognising it as the same kind of one my father was hooked up to when he was in his coma. The source of the beeping.

_**Beep**__._

There are cables and IV drips, and I follow them with my eyes from their source to their patient.

_**Beep**__._

My shoulders hunch.

_**Beep**__._

My mind shuts down.

_**Beep**__._

All I see is his limp, pale hand hanging over the hospital bed, scarlet blood dripping off the end of his still, pale fingers. Each droplet, one after the other, delicately giving in to gravity and finding their place on the lino floor to join the puddle of crimson below.

". . . Oliver?"

_**Beeeeeeeeeeep...**_

" _OLIVER! "_

**Notes**

Cliffhanger.

*Puts hands up in submission, wincing terribly as she anticipates the virtual fire-power tearing through her entire body*

This story will continue on the day the Season Finale airs on TV in England, I promise.

**6th April.**

Please leave feedback. It really helps so much! :) Thank you so much for the amazing support!

Happy reading xx :S


	46. It's Your Choice

**TWO CHAPTERS TODAY!**

**Guest **YES YES YES YES YES Haha thanks for the enthusiasm xxxxx

**Guest **Thank you. I'm so glad I wrote Rick's POV okay. I was so worried that I wouldn't do it right. I sometimes feel so posy tweaking their thoughts for my story, but it turns out okay in the end so I'm happy :)

**TheDarkSide123 **Sadistic? Definitely :) hahaa THANK YOU! Ah! You make my day! I'm so sadistically glad that I give you the intense feels! Hahaha, ugh, I'm a monster haha thank you thank you thank you! Haha, I figured that was what all the 3's and /'s were :) Yes, I will be writing a sequel. This story will end in about seven chapters.

**The Flash Fanatic **Thank you xxx but as I said, it's gonna be a sequel :) It just feels more like a sequel to me :) Plus, apparently I'm supposed to be bothered to put the work in to it haha

**inazumahunter **Haha thank you! It's here! It's here! The next chapter!

**Guest **Haha, I hope you can trust my plan :S xx thanks

**Bane2014 **Thank you x OMFG I typed in Carl x OMC or something like that into google and Stale M&amp;M's came up! Wtf!? Haha

** 329 **Twice? Aw, thank you so much! You're a beautiful person!

**Can't pick fandom for user **Thank you so much! You're so lovely for saying that!

**Me casaSu casa **Hello! Thank you so much for coming all the way over here to give me support! Aw, thank you so much. I love you for reading it! Yeah, Oliver is my favorite original character that I've written :) And, nice, that's a lovely name. My bro has the same last name, but, you know, as a first name haha :) You know what? I had to look up what OTP meant... I'm such an idiot haha, THANK YOU! You're a fanboy just like Oliver, _Oliver!_ Goddamn, that's so great! Thank you!

**tartanarmygirl **Thank you. You'll have to see what happends :)

**Guest **Thank you so much xxx You'll see what happens to him xxx

**THE REST OF THE REPLIES TO COMMENTS WILL BE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER XXX**

**Hello, everyone. The boys are back. I just wanted to tell you all right away. As you all know, or I hope know, this whole thing is not revolved solely around the boy's love life. So I also need to let you know that it isn't going to go right into the romance yet, but it will, swear, but just let them get through the story, too xx thank you to you all who are reading and enjoying, and welcome the fuck back. **

**LOVE YOU ALL SO FREAKING MUCH!**

**Oliver's POV**

"_Baby?"_

_A woman's voice. Soft. Southern. Unfamiliar. But I want to hear her again._

"_Baby? You gonna get up now?"_

_Again, and her voice is as lovely as the first time. Hearing her is like taking a bath for lack of a better way to describe it. When the warm water swallows you up and creates that momentary calm that soothes every inch of your mind and soul._

"_C'mon, sweetie. You can't stay in there forever."_

_I want to open my eyes. Match the voice to a face._

"_I know you can hear me, baby," she says softly, and I can feel her hand on my forearm, gently running her thumb back and forth along my skin. "Jus' a little more. C'mon... almost there, baby."_

_My eyes flutter open and I inhale deeply through my nose. Cherry? __**Why do I smell cherry? **__I don't ponder over this for too long however, because almost immediately my eyes focus on who is in front of me._

_Fair, smooth skin. Freckles scattered flawlessly across her high cheekbones and defined jaw and forehead, even some on her lips. There's something familiar about her, too. She leans forward a little as she sits beside me on the bed I am led on, taking my hand and raising it in hers to hold, causing her long, dark brown hair to swing over her left shoulder._

_She glances at me as she presses my knuckles to her lips, running her thumb over my wrists, her deep, green-brown oracles meeting mine and comforting me just like her voice did. A smile gracefully forms over her lips, showing a dimple on both cheeks. _

_Familiar..._

_I blink in awe, realising who she is._

"_. . . __Lori?"_

_Her smile widens, "Hi, sweetie," she says gently against my skin._

"_Hi," just passes my lips, the word clinging to my breath for dear life._

_Lori places my hand back by my side and then reaches to my face to brush my messy fringe out of my eyes, as if she is as close to me as as I was with my own mother. But it's a natural bond between us somehow, one in which I don't question or resist._

"_Oliver," she says gently. "Do you know why you're here?"_

_My brow furrows as I try to recollect everything that happened. My time line fuzzy and jumbled and disorientated. There was Grady, and The Trade... Carol and Beth... Dawn? My hand slides up to my shoulder, pressing my fingers just below my left collarbone for the injury I saw there before I. . . _

_My breath hitches._

_Nothing's there._

"_There were two shots__." _

_It was almost a question, and tears well in my eyes as a wave of sadness drowns me, remembering Beth's death. Another member of my family murdered before they were properly able to live._

_Lori nods, sighing sympathetically when she does, "Yeah, baby."_

_Baby?_

_I remember Carl telling me that this was what his mother would call him all the time. But it's strange. When Lori says it, it doesn't feel patronising or demeaning. Just comforting. I always heard Lori was a woman who you could rely on to console someone. A trait that I believe she has passed down to Judith, despite her being only an infant._

_She watches me for a moment, "Do you understand?" she asks dubiously._

_I nod and look away, fighting the tears prickling at the back of my eyes. Putting two and two together and knowing that I didn't survive either._

_But suddenly a look of sympathetic guilt sweeps over Lori's expression. "No, honey. Don't think about that right now."_

_My expression tenses, "Carl isn't here is he?" I get out, the very idea unbearable to me._

_Lori smiles. "No."_

"_C__an... can I go back?" I ask, not realising that I am pleading until I keep talking. "I have to, please? I promised him I wouldn't leave him. Please?"_

_Lori sits back, holding my eye contact as her expression relaxes and becomes comforting again. "I can't tell you that. It's up to you to figure it out on your own. It's your choice. You either stay here with us or you find a way to go back home."_

_I look around the room to see what the 'here' is she was referring to. My eyes recognising the small, familiar cell Lori and I are in. Suddenly my breath hitches and my heart soars._

_The Prison._

_But it's spotless here. No debris from those explosions. No blood of the innocent or the guilty alike. No gore. No dirt. No grime. In fact, the whole place is white. I remember the walls were a grey colour before, much like everywhere else (except Michonne's rainbow cat), but it's all white now. Bright - almost - blinding white._

"_But I am home," I mumble without meaning to. For I don't mean it because I want to stay... or, I do want to, maybe, but I know I can't._

_Lori is also dressed completely in white, with a white tank top, white genes, white fleece and even a white little bobby pin holding her dark brown fringe to one side. She chooses not to reply verbally, and I realise where her son must have gotten that mysterious trait from too. Instead she motions me to get out of bed, and I do as she asks, gingerly pulling my blankets off of me and pulling my legs off of the mattress. I anticipate the agony of my movement, but it never arrives. So I stand up. Lori gently moves me to stand in front of her, holding my shoulders steady as she examines me like a mother assessing her child's uniform on the first day of school. _

"_There you are," she smiles warmly._

"_Who else is here?" I ask, remembering her say 'us' a moment ago._

"_Nothin' gets past you, huh?" Lori jests gently, stepping away and gesturing me to leave with her out of what I realise is actually my old cell in D-Block. "Come take a walk with me."_

_We leave the cell block, heading out into the courtyard and then crossing the outdoor cafeteria. But no one is here._

"_Where is everyone?" I ask, spinning around on the spot to get an all around view. Spotting nothing moving other than the trees beyond the vicinity. __**Whoa... even the trees are white.**_

"_There here."_

"_Where?"_

"_All around us."_

_I frown, disturbed because the only other person I can see is her._

"_Listen," she adumbrates._

_So I do, for a long time. Until I almost collapse when I suddenly hear children laughing. It's distant, but there, and moving. I can hear their footsteps, running right past me giggling as someone who sounds like Mika shouts, "Tag!" _

_For a surreal moment I hear a lot more people, going about their daily business. But when I look with my eyes they are no where to be seen._

"_Where are all the walkers?" I ask haggardly, failing to see any of them along the fence line._

"_There are no walker's here, sweetie."_

_I'm panting with my fear and confusion, but I swallow and nod, slowly coming to terms with all of this._

"_Is this Heaven...? O-or, something?"_

"_No, baby."_

"_Lori, what is this? Where is everyone? Why can't I see them?"_

_She doesn't answer with words, just rests her hand on my shoulder and pulls me against her, and for a long moment we just look out over the empty front yard, listening to the voices of my family that surround us, all of them sounding happy and well and not afraid or in pain._

"_Can I see ever them?" _

"_Not yet."_

_My heart aches, feeling as though I have been punched in the gut as I crave to talk to them all again. To see them. To be with them. I glance at her, wiping my tears and burying my sadness. "Why can I talk to you though?"_

_Lori looks at me sideways, cocking her brow incredulously at my question as if I had just pulled a horse out of my pocket. I dip my head, ashamed that I am being obnoxious enough to question all of this as I truly have no place to do so. _

"_Sorry, ma'am," I apologise, ignoring the questions nagging in my mind._

_Lori smiles solemnly, pulling me to accompany her back towards the main building without another word. _

_~ Sometime Later ~_

"_Lori, w__hat're we doing in The Tombs?"_

"_There's somethin' I want you to see."_

_There are no voices down here. _

_It's just Lori and I._

_We continue walking for a little while. Even down here in what was always my least favourite place in the Prison, it is beautiful. There are no lights or widows, but the corridors glow from the white, making more than enough light for us as we go deeper into The Tombs._

"_You said I had to choose," I say after a moment, and despite how quiet I was being, my voice bounces and dances off of the white walls, "whether I wanted to stay or go back?" Lori doesn't respond more than a small shift of her brown-green eyes, so I keep talking. "How long do I have until it's too late? Before I really do die?"_

_Lori stops outside of a door, and I glance at the sign on the wall: _

"_BOILER ROOM - Mechanical: Authorized Personnel Only__"_

_My breath hitches and I step away from it, my expression dropping as I stare at the door that this woman died behind of. _

"_It's all down to you, Oliver," she answers my previous question. "You live for as long as you decide to. Or you can stay with us... It's your choice."_

_I swallow the grenade in my throat. __**How am I suppose to choose to live or die? I have no control over this! **__The pressure becomes too much and tears well in my eyes like a child who can't remember where they left their pokemon card collection. But I blink them away and look at Lori, swallowing. _

"_Did you...?" I get out of me. "Did you choose to die?"_

_Lori shakes her head. "I was too far gone... I didn't get to choose," she explains softly, then places her hand on my shoulder and sighs, closing her eyes for a moment before looking at me again and motioning into the boiler room. "C'mon, baby."_

_In my life during the time I lived at the Prison, I went into the boiler room once to help Glenn and Hershel fix the water heating system. Our mission was a success, resulting in rationed heated water and some heating in the library and cell blocks, but we never used the latter because it never got cold enough. It was filthy down there on that day though. I remember seeing the long-since-dried-and-blackened-blood stain on the floor, but neither Glenn or Hershel told me what had happened, and quite frankly I didn't ask, knowing that they either didn't know or I didn't want to know, and it wouldn't have been until well after Carl told me, while I was on the road with Carol and Tyreese and Judith weeks later, even after Mika and Lizzie died, that the penny finally dropped and I realised that Lori's blood stain was what I had seen._

_But again, the room is clean now, with no evidence of Lori's demise or anything else that means there has ever been an outbreak. But nothing that suggests that there ever hasn't been one either._

_Despite what happened here, once Lori closes the door she goes into the middle of the room and sits down in the place she died. I step towards her, though, not joining her in sitting because it seems almost insulting to her. But she looks up at me and pats the pale cement floor beside her for me to sit._

_I hesitate, tensing my eyebrows and shoulders, shaking my head like a toddler refusing their broccoli._

"_Come sit," Lori invites again._

_Pursing my lips in discomfort, I join her finally, sitting cross legged beside her with my body facing her. There is a short pause, during which we both simply sit still and let the silence surround us. Breathing slowly and calmly until I finally break the quiet._

"_Why does it smell of cherry?"_

_Lori smirks. "It'll smell of whatever you want it to. It's different for everyone," she explains. "So, you like cherry then?"_

"_Yeah," I answer, "I remember my father brought back some cherries from somewhere he went for work. I liked the smell, but as soon as I tried some I thought they were gross. Not sure why."_

_Lori chuckles, dipping her head for a moment before looking at me again. "Strange isn't it. Like, how I love the taste o' tomato soup but I can't stand the smell."_

_I grin and nod. "Guess it doesn't smell like tomato soup to you here then, huh?"_

"_No it does not," Lori laughs, her shoulders bobbing._

"_But, it's not as good," I tell her, "the smell of cherry, I mean. It's not as good as I remember it."_

"_Of course it's not," Lori smiles comfortingly. "You don't get that much. Not yet."_

_I furrow my brow, "What, so I am not allowed to have the full smell of cherry unless I die?" It started out sarcastic, but the true weight of the question became serious and troubling._

_Lori just smiles for a moment. "There's a lot more here than jus' nice smells 'n' clean hallways."_

_I look away from her, nodding. __"__What does it smell of here to you then?" I ask finally._

_Lori raises her brow, "What do you think?" she asks._

_I shrug, "Uh, I don't know... Roses?" I guess, saying the most stereotypical thing I can think of._

_She shakes her head, giggling. "No. But it does start with the same letter."_

"_R?"_

_Lori nods._

"_Uh, 'R'... 'R'... Raspberries?" I guess, our conversation suddenly turning into a game of Eye Spy, reminding me of playing it so much with Mika and Lizzie. Though, I guess this game is called Ear spy actually._

_She shakes her head no._

"_Um, rain?"_

_Another shake of her head, along with a laugh at my expense._

_I frown, but refuse to give up. "Can you at least give me a clue?"_

"_Alright," Lori smirks, readjusting her hands behind her to sit up taller. "Think more... _person,_ rather than any _thing._"_

_I frown again, completely lost now. __**Person? What. . . ? Oh. **__My face relaxes as it all suddenly makes sense. _

"_Rick," I say, smiling softly at her, and also slightly mocking her. "He's your... favourite smell?"_

"_Favourite smell in the whole world," Lori says proudly._

_She lets her head fall back as she inhales through her nose, taking in the essence of her love that only she can smell. I glance away, smiling to myself and thinking that that is probably the oddest, yet loveliest thing I have ever heard._

_Lori chuckles to herself, opening her eyes and facing me again. "Never really thought of how strange that sounds until now," she admits, embarrassed._

"_No, it's beautiful," I tell her._

_She smiles modestly._

"_And strange."_

_She laughs and pushes my shoulder._

"_You know," I chuckle, sitting right again, "he still wears his wedding ring."_

_She closes her eyes and inhales again, and I can see her rolling her thumb over her own wedding ring still on her finger. "I thought he woulda taken it off by now," she says quietly._

"_No," I whisper. "He loved you."_

_Again, that modest smile of hers, as if she doesn't truly believe she deserves her late husband's loyalty. _

"_Lori?" I say, and she looks at me and nods. "Are, uh... are you supposed to be an angel? Uh, o-or, something else?"_

_She smirks, "What do you think?"_

"_I think that all this 'making me say what I think you think'... is getting old."_

_Lori breathes a laugh. "I'm no angel, baby. It's simpler than that," she says, "but it's also a lot more complicated."_

_My shoulders droop, admitting defeat._

_She smiles at my dismayed expression, letting out a long breath and then leaning back to lie down. My breathing shallows in alarm, disturbed as I realise that she must look exactly the same way she did when Carl and Maggie had to perform the C-section on her to save Judith._

"_I come down here a lot," Lori speaks suddenly after a long silence._

"_Why?"_

_She shakes her head and shrugs as if to say she doesn't know. But I can tell she does really. So I wait for her to tell me, staying quiet for a moment until she finally decides to summon her voice._

"_To think," she whispers at first, her brow arching and looking back up at the ceiling. "To remember."_

"_Remember what?" I ask as I look down at her. _

_She rolls her head to look up at me, holding my eye contact for a moment and smiling a sad smile. But I can't shake the troubled furrow from my brow. _

"_To remember, what it felt like to hold my baby for the last time." _

_For a moment I think she means Judith, but I realise that Lori sadly never got the chance to hold her daughter in her arms at all. _

_She's talking about her son. . . _

_I lean back and lie down beside her, finding that the floor isn't freezing like I thought it would be, instead it is warm and soothing. __"__He told me a while back, about..." I swallow the sudden lump from my throat, "the last thing you said to him... Your goodbye." Lori closes her eyes, a single tear tricking from her left and running to her ear. My eyebrows knit into a frown as I observe her, feeling that lump grow into a rock in my throat, as if I'm hurting for the mother led beside me. So I continue. __"__He told me, that... that he wanted me to hear you, too." _

_I remember Carl's actual words to me that night a million years ago after we helped fend off the walkers that breached the fence. __He said, "I think about what she told me all the time. I just wanted you to hear her, too – I mean, what she said – hear what she said." He'd c__orrected himself at the time, embarrassed that he had said it as if Lori was really there with us, thinking that I would think of him as childish or insane. Which, of course, never even crossed my mind._

"_Did you?"_

"_What?"_

_Her breath hiccups as another tear rolls from each of her eyes, locking her gaze on to me again. _

"_Did you hear me?"_

_I nod, tears prickling the back of my eyes, "Yes, ma'am," I answer truthfully, my brow still furrowed in my efforts not to let my sadness and sympathy overpower me. "I did. And, I think he heard you, too."_

_I reach over and take Lori's hand, lacing my fingers with hers and she lets out a silent sob, a sad and happy smile breaking over her mouth in gratitude as she runs her warm thumb over my extremity._

"_Tell me," the brave woman begins. "How does it feel... to hold him?"_

_My brow arches and all the tears suddenly spill from my eyes. My lips tense as I form my answer in my mind, trying to find all the words that could possibly do the Grimes justice._

"_Like, nothing I have ever felt before. Like every other thing wrong in the world is gone and it's just him... Lori, he... He makes me feel. . ." I search for the right word. Needing one that means more than limitless, more than infinite, some thing boundless of time or space or magnitude. Searching and searching and searching. "Sempiternal. . . And there's no place in the whole world I feel safer."_

_Lori lets out a short, stifled sob as she nods. "You love him more than anything, don't you?"_

"_Yes, ma'am," I whisper._

_She smiles that sad smile, making my heart throb. "Me, too," she whispers._

_A hiccup escapes my lips and I lift my free hand to wipe my tears away, before reaching over and gently doing the same for her. Lori and I share the love we feel for Carl. It doesn't matter that it is two different types of love, it is still love. Unconditional and irrevocable. So for a long time we just lie there, missing and hurting and mourning together until the silent tears finally stop._

"_She__ was a girl – your baby.__"_

"_Little Judith Grimes."_

_I nod and smile, hiccuping again. "Yeah. Sometimes Daryl calls her Little Ass Kicker."_

_Lori chuckles, shaking her head as much to show her dismay as to shake away the tears. "Of course he does."_

_I laugh, too._

"_Tell me about her? Please?"_

_I sigh, turning my body to face her and resting my cheek on my free hand, led on my side now as I keep hold of Lori's hand. _

"_Lori, she's so beautiful," I tell her softly, my eyes crinkling in glee at the thought of the innocent toddler, again, trying to get the right words for the other young Grimes. "And so pure... with eyes so big and perfect that you could lose yourself in them. You see her and can't help but fall in love. And she's so, good... and so smart," I say, letting a grin work its way across my mouth. "Stubborn, too... More stubborn than Carl."_

"_That's my girl," Lori beams – no – glows with her happiness. Moved by my words. She lets out a chuckle, sniffing as she wipes more tears. "Little Judith Grimes."_

"_Yes, ma'am."_

_Lori laughs again, hiccuping before looking away and sitting up. "C'mon. It's getting late."_

"_What?" I blurt, sitting up suddenly, adrenaline rushing through me._

"_Don't worry. Not like that," she reassures me. "I jus' thought you'd wanna go back to your cell or somethin'."_

_I bite my lips, crinkling my eyes in reluctance. "Can I stay here for a little while? Please?"_

"_Yeah o' course," Lori says happily. "I'll see you later."_

_I almost ask what she will be doing until then, but I stop myself because I am almost certain that she will go and be with the others like I'm not able to. So I nod and watch her leave the boiler room. But she leaves the door open, so I get up and close it, wanting to be completely alone for a moment. _

_That's when it hits me. _

_The realisation that I am just that. Truly, completely, eerily _alone,_ and I'm not sure whether I like it like that or not. I go over to the desk, tapping my finger on the wooden surface. It is worn and flaking from age, but it is still white and spotless._

"_Are you gonna go back?" I ask myself before I realise it, but even then I don't stop myself. "Because you know you have to."_

_I wrack my mind to figure out how I can possibly do this, and then, knowing it won't work, I pinch myself on the arm._

"_Ouch," I roll my eyes at myself, dropping my hand and shaking my head in irritation. "That was stupid. Since when has that ever worked?"_

_My frustration builds and I lean on the desk, resting my forehead on the balls of my palms with my elbows dug into the wood. "Go back, Oliver," I tell myself, scrunching my eyes shut. "Go back!"_

_It doesn't work, and so I drop my arms and bang my forehead against the desk surface, not hard enough to hurt though, because despite my solitary conversation, I'm not insane. But then I get to thinking that doing that might actually do the trick. But I hesitate, wondering if I really am mad. _

"_Oh, just do it you damn sap!"_

_**CRACK!**_

_That's the noise as skull collides with wood. _

"_FUUUCK__!__"_

_That's the aftermath. _

_I stumble off of the desk, clutching my forehead and howling like a dying cat, writhing in pain on the floor, cursing obscenities that I am sure I am most definitely _not_ suppose to say here. But the anger and frustration gets the better of me, so I snap._

"_Fucking go back, Oliver!" I growl. "Go, the fuck, BACK! Damn you! Fucking! FUUUCK! GO back! Go BACK!" I start crying now, like a little child. "Go back," I whimper. "Please, you can't leave him. You made a promise! You made a promise."_

_I curl up on the concrete floor, hating that I can't work out how to control this. Hating that I am in Limbo. Hating that I am stuck between The Between. Hating the fact that my clothes are coloured normally and not white like Lori's. Hating that I can't go and see everyone else. Then, above all, hating that the only way I can is if I lose my life._

_The despair punches me in the gut, and I claw at myself in rage, digging my nails into my sides and arms and neck, desperately trying to tare myself out of this place in any way I possibly can. But I stop when a loud, mind rattling noise bulldozes through the boiler room._

_Because that's when the telephone rings._

_I freeze on the floor, panting and startled as I cradle my head in my arms, my nails stiff and dug into my temples. For a moment I wonder if I'd even heard it, if it was just another thing to call myself insane about._

_**RING... RING...**_

_My head snaps up to the phone on the corner of the desk, my breath collapsing as I stare at it, anticipating the next bells._

_**RING... RIN-**_

_I leap at the phone before it finishes the repetitive tune. _

"_Hello?" _

_My voice cracks and my hands shake violently, causing the phone to jolt against my cheek and ear._

"Doc, please?"

_I gasp into the phone as I recognise the voice instantly. "Rick! Rick, can you hear me?"_

"Doc, it's been a day. Just wait a little longer?" _Rick's voice is shaking and dry, as if he has been crying. Somewhere in the background is shuffling, and another noise, repetitive and penetrating. A beeping. Like in hospital TV shows._

"_Rick? It's me!"_

"We have very limited resources here. There's only so much I can do. Look, I got the bullet out and his bleeding is under control now. It's just a case of waiting for him to heal enough and wake up."

"_Hello?! I'm here! It's me! Can you hear me? God, please! Please?" But I stop my begging before I become hysterical, realising that they can't hear me – that I'm just listening to their conversation. So I stay as silent as my hitching breath will allow and listen carefully._

"How long will it be until he does?" _Rick asks. _"I-I was in a coma once, too. Took me almost two months to come out of." _**Is that what has happened to me? Am I in a coma?**_

"I don't know," _the doctor answers Rick glumly._ "But we can't keep him here forever - you said it yourself that you're moving on soon."

"N-no."

_I clutch the phone in both hands, my expression crumpling in relief at Carl's voice._

"No, please? P-please!" _He's hysterical! _"D-don't turn him off! D-don't! Please!"

"_Carl!" I blurt, desperate for him to know that I am alright. Hating myself for making him relive this again, only this time in me rather than his father._

"N-no, wait! W-wait...!"

_I listen to a struggle. A violent struggle. _

"Carl, stop it!" _Rick's growl is furious and devastated._

"He's gonna wake up!" _Carl cries frantically, sounding like someone is grabbing around his chest._

"Don't worry, Carl," _the Doctor says, his voice moving closer to wherever I am listening from._ "I'm just going to give him a-"

"No! GET AWAY FROM HIM!"

_That's when I hear the heavy '_THWACK' _as a fist is thrown, and the loud grunt and clatter from the doctor as what I can only guess is the noise of him as he stumbles to the floor from Carl's punch._

"CARL! DAMMIT, SON!"

_I find myself pacing the boiler room, panting into my sweating palm as I listen through the phone. I can hear something dragging on the floor behind me and I spin around to look at it, gasping in my panic. _

_It's the end of the phone cable. _

_It's torn from the wall with frayed and broken wires sticking from the curly plastic. I freeze, pulling the phone from my face and staring wildly at the object that shouldn't be working. But I can still hear the yelling and growling from more people through it, and the screaming. _

_Carl's screaming._

"_No, no, no, no!" Panic over takes me. "It's not real. It's not!"_

_I slam the phone down on the set. Silencing the terrible noises, and along with it, the rest of the world. I'm out of the boiler room and hurtling down the tomb corridors in seconds, clutching the phone to my chest and heaving my breath as I run outside, and then hurtling through the courtyard to D-Block. I make it to my cell, panting and coughing as I hug the phone set to my stomach and try to think of what to do with it._

"_Oliver?" _

_Just like she said she would, Lori is back from wherever she was to see me. I'm pretty sure I can't explain why I have taken a useless phone back to my cell to listen to something that can't be real. _

_My eyes widen, spinning on the spot in the middle of my cell before clambering to my brother's old bunk and shoving the phone under the covers, rushing and fumbling to stuff the long, pointless cable up there, too. Then, just in time, I swivel around to face Lori as she turns into my call, nonchalantly leaning against the frame of the bed and forcing a relaxed expression. _

_She jolts to a halt upon seeing my clearly distressed state, the sudden stop causing her hair to swoop over her shoulder._

"_H-hm." I was supposed to say hello._

"_Everything okay?"_

"_Mhm," I hum, again I'd forgotten to open my mouth._

_Lori narrows her eyes, unconvinced. "Sure?" she says slowly._

_I pull my lips into something I think looks like a smile, "Uh huh," I manage, quickly sitting on the bed, trying not to worry about Carl or the telephone or Rick or the others. "I'm gonna head to sleep now."_

_Lori shakes her head. "No, nobody sleeps here. Don't need to."_

"_What?" I question, my expression tense._

_Lori holds my gaze for a moment, coaxing me to relax, and when I do a little she sits beside me on the bed. "You don't need to sleep, eat, drink, wash, go to the bathroom. Anything that you don't wanna do."_

"_Then what do you do here?"_

"_Here... You gotta be, Oliver... All you gotta do is _be._"_

_My head nods automatically, understanding her more than I would have expected to. "Okay," I breathe. _

_So with that, Lori places her hand on the back of my head, gently pulling me closer to her to plant a kiss on my forehead. _

"_Just. Be." _

_She releases me, standing up and stepping to the door, one more thing to tell me before she leaves. _

"_Everything works out the way it's suppose to."_

**Carl's POV**

I've never hit a person before. A living person, I mean. Walker skulls are kinda like a water melon, so when it receives a blow it'll usually take only one or two hits to cave it in. Not like a living person though. I had underestimated how hard living bone was, especially when it connects with a fist fuelled by instinct and fear. So, as a result of my violence, I've messed up my right knuckle pretty badly. I don't say that in triumph or some kind of vain narcissism. What I did was stupid and without thought, and it took Dad, Glenn, Tara and Michonne to get me off of the doctor, giving me a couple more bruises to add to the horrible collection. But I don't care about all that, just as long as Oliver doesn't move from that hospital bed without his eyes open and colour in his skin and a constant beat in his heart.

I don't know how to explain myself for my actions. I just lost it. Panicked. I saw he Doctor as he went over to Oliver with that syringe in his hand... I thought he was going to. . .

Anyway, needless to say, damage was done and we had to get ourselves sorted out.

That's what I'm doing now, sat in a too comfy, too cushioned hospital bed that's too tall for me to reach the floor with my feet, making me feel too much like a child. My expression is rigid and tense. My shoulders hunched as I clutch the edge of the bed with my good hand, elevating my bad, right hand to the man as he tends to my injury.

I didn't think he would help after the black eye I have given him, and when he said he still would I was then expecting him to be careless and purposely rough and unprofessional. But I was wrong, and I feel terrible for it.

I can't bring myself to look at him. Too ashamed and still too angry to apologise or talk without screaming. So I stay silent as he carefully and precisely casts up my right hand.

His office is small and poorly lit, with papers and books strewn across the room and furniture, like he spends a little too much thinking in here, like all the ideas and thoughts have all been pent up and strangled down in here. Out of the corner of my eye I see him glance up at me, and I avert my eyes further away so that I can't see him at all.

He sighs. "It's not broken, the worst case is it looks like a Nondisplaced fracture... Luckily you didn't hit hard enough to damage yourself any worse, so the bones stayed in the same place."

_**I can hit you harder next time if you want? **_I hold my tongue, knowing that he is only telling me as a doctor and not to teach me a lesson or to patronise me. So I glance at the door, seeing the outline of Michonne outside 'waiting for me', which really means 'making sure I don't lash out again'.

"Understand?" he asks.

Gritting my teeth and heavy with guilt and anger and grief, I nod to him.

"I can't give you a X-ray or CAT scan, but I'm fairly sure that in three or four weeks you'll be able to remove the cast and use your hand again. It may be sore and stiff for a while, but just go easy on it until it's back to normal."

I move my mouth into a too small, too one sided, too forced smile. "Thanks," I get out after practically shoving it from my pride.

He nods, stepping away to rummage through his drawers. I examine my inured extremity, seeing the white cast fitted and wrapped snugly around it and hiding the black and blue bruises underneath that I had caused myself.

When I look up from my cast, I am surprised to see the man stood in front of me with four rolls of cast in his hands. But it's the colour of them that strikes me most. Having been in this bleak and bland hospital all night and day, the sudden rainbow I see in front of me is quite a shock to the system.

An awkward exchange of eye contact takes place between me and the man, and my lips twitch as I consider talking, but ultimately, like usual, choose against it.

"I found 'em a few days back on the floor downstairs," he explains, shifting his sights from his haul to my cast and then to my eyes. "I wish I'd found 'em before. It would've been nice to've given Beth a little colour on her wrist to cheer her up. But..." He trails off when I dip my head, saddened by the loss of my family, and the man seems to endure the same devastation. But he clears his throat and continues. "But, I guess it doesn't matter now."

I just nod.

His right eyebrow twitches, expecting more of a response from me. But I think he's gotten used to my introverted, surly demeanour by now, so he moves on. "Pick a colour."

"Oh, it's fine," I shake my head as he motions the cast rolls to me. "I don't need decoration."

"Yes, you do actually," the Doctor counteracts. "Beth – in here – with her wrist. I was able to change her cast if it fell apart or got dirty. But if – I mean, _when _your boyfriend wakes up, it's pretty clear that you and your people're going to be leaving fairly quickly. You're gonna need a cast that wont fall apart as soon as it gets a knock or a bump or a piece of dirt or drop of rain on it."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, knowing he's right.

The man raises his eyebrows expectantly, "So?" he gestures to his full arms. "Pick a colour. Purple. Green. Red. Or Blue."

I do roll my eyes this time, furrowing my forehead and shrugging. "I don't care," I answer honestly, and when the man doesn't move I sigh and shrug again.

His head rolls back in slight annoyance, frowning. Clearly, we really haven't gotten off to a good start. "Purple," he tells me dryly.

I think he is waiting for me to protest, expecting the stereotypical teenager he thinks I am to demand a preferred colour or something ridiculous like that that I have never taken any care for. So I just shrug and hold out my hand for him to go ahead.

"Okay."

One of his eyebrows twitch slightly, "Alright," he says sceptically as he puts the others down and begins to wrap my cast with the purple garment. "You sure? Because you're not gonna be able to change your mind."

_Seriously?!_ I barely manage to keep my word silent, gesturing for him to go ahead. But I furrow my brow, beginning to find myself irritated by him. It's obvious that he thinks of me as just some bratty, obnoxious, teenage boy. I mean, granted, I have sort of brought that first impression on myself after slugging him a while ago, but regardless... he shouldn't take it so personally.

"You haven't been out there, have you?" I ask as he snips into the purple fabric.

"No," he answers as he wraps. "Not for more than a few days at the beginning, I haven't."  
"Well, matching your tie with your shoes isn't important anymore," I tell him. "Not wanting a purple cast 'cause blue might suit me better doesn't mean anything out there. Not anymore."

He suddenly stops what he's doing. "Do you want the blue cast instead?"

"_No,_" I tell him, it almost coming out with an exclamation mark, astonished by his cluelessness and unable to stop the incredulous tone in my voice. "Purple's fine."

He gives me a confused smile, and then keeps wrapping my fractured hand. "Alright."

We remain silent until he is finished, and I stand up, surprised by the weight of the cast as I bob my arm and try to get used to it, wondering whether it would hurt too much to whack a walker with it as a last resort of defence. But I try not to think about that, knowing too bitterly that I have never thought to learn to use a firearm or any other weapons with my left hand, and suddenly terrified by the idea of being back to square one in terms of skills... failing as I try not to think of the fatal mistake I have made.

"Shit," falls from my mouth before I can stop it, my face draining of its blood.

"Everything alright, Carl?" the doctor asks, frowning as he watches my inner panic.

"Hm?" I snap out of my worry. "Uh, y-yeah. Thanks for this... and, you know, everything else."

He nods and smiles. "You're welcome."

"Erm, I, uh, I'm sorry, for hitting you," I apologise sincerely despite how awkward I must sound. "You didn't deserve it."

"You were afraid for your friend... I understand, Carl."

"G'night..." But I don't know a name to finish by, "uh?"

"Steven," he tells me. "Steven Edwards."

"Uh, I'd, shake your hand, but, uh," I say awkwardly, trying to keep away the dread, "it's fractured, so."

Steven laughs silently, stepping aside and grabbing me some pain killers from a packet on his desk, which, as I watch him do this, is like witnessing him just happening to find a brick of gold on his desk.

"Whoa."

Upon seeing my awed expression, Steven hands the whole box over to me. "Take six a day. Two before every meal. I'll come to give Oliver his meds when he needs them, I'll give you some antibiotics, too when I go get them."

"Thanks," I almost cry, catching myself ans then letting myself entertain the idea of ever having three meals a day again as my family and I are lucky if we get two a day, most of the time only the one meal is a miracle.

Steven nods, gesturing to the door. "Get some rest," he tells me, going over to his desk and picking up an old newspaper to read.

"No, really. Thank you, Steven."

He looks up to me after he slumps into his desk chair. One that spins. "You're a good kid, Carl. And he'll be okay. I'll make sure of it... Dawn; the woman that was killed in the trade yesterday?"

I nod, gritting my teeth at the mention of the woman who shot Oliver – put him in a coma.

Steven sighs. "She's gone now. And I'm the only doctor... so, it'll be my decision when – _if,_ Oliver is taken off of the machine." As he speaks my whole body tenses with outrage, but he is quick to continue, doing well to keep his voice confident and dignified. "But I promise that I will do everything in my power to get that boy to wake up. _Alive._"

My brow arches in pure relief and I deflate into myself, hugging my middle as I nod to him, apologetic and relieved. "'M grateful," I tell him truthfully, sounding more like my father than I meant to.

"Well, it's important to me."

There is a pause as my eyebrows slowly knit into a confused frown. "Why...?" I ask slowly, still swimming with relief and so overcome with it that tears well in my eyes against my will. "Why is this so important to you?"

Steven suddenly looks sad, not just generally sad like everything seems to be lately, but nostalgic sad, like he wants to smile but is just too... sad. "At the start," he begins. "Maybe, a few months in... I met a kid out on a run. Was about your age, maybe few years older. His name was Conner Hill... Found him burnt and half dead. Brought him back here. Dawn was gonna give up on him. But I made a deal with her that I'd use resources to save him, and in return, he would stay and work them all off... You see, it started the system we had here."

I chew the inside of my lip, watching him as he dips his head for a second in his regret.

"Dawn made Conner stay for what was supposed to be two weeks... but, turned into two months... then four... then eight. He tried to escape with another girl, but he ended up getting her killed... and then he just, walked right back in... Two weeks later he swallowed a handful of pain killers."

My breath hitches, not expecting such a dark story from a man who was talking about cast colours a moment ago.

"That's why I'm saving Oliver... I owe it to Conner... and Beth."

For a moment I am so disturbed that I have to think the cold away, before nodding in understanding.

"Get some rest, Carl."

I nod again and head for the door, but just before I touch the door knob I glance back at him. "Uh, Doctor. Edwards? H-how...? Is there...? Uh... Is there any way that we can wake him?" I know it is a dumb question. But it's worth a try.

"We just wait I'm afraid. He's breathing on his own and there was no apparent trauma to his lungs except his cracked ribs, but they'll heal on their own. The bullet missed his major artery. So, no. Worst comes to worst... Epinephrine drip. It'd ease his blood pressure and we'd just have to wait and see if it'd be enough to wake him."

"Can't you do that now?"

"No, it's too dangerous. He needs to do this alone until we have no other option. It's how I woke up Carol, the drip. But it could have easily been too early and killed her. It's down to the patient. It's his choice to wake up... He's just gotta find something to fight for."

I dip my head into what was suppose to be a nod, but I'm too exhausted. "Thank you," I say finally before leaving the room, meds in hand.

I pull the door closed behind me and lean against the frame, my gut aching in worry as I rest my head against the surface and close my eyes. But someone touches my shoulder, making me leap out of my skin, and then relaxing when I see that it's only Michonne.

She examines my cast, pursing her lips empathetically before walking with me back towards Oliver's room without a word. We have all got our own temporary rooms to stay in here at the hospital, and the previous deal Shepard made wasn't an empty one. We are allowed to eat here and stay just as long as we are civil, mostly provide for ourselves, help them get their supplies sometimes (which was more just to repay them for the resources we _have _to use), and maintain order. Something which I have already failed miserably at. But I think I've been given a pardon, given my circumstance. Anyway, despite all this, Daryl and Maggie (Glenn too by marital default) all still insist on staying outside in or around the fire truck. Not trusting the Grady residents after everything that has happened here with Beth, as both have been hit hard by her colossal loss the most. Also, because Eugene lied, the rest of the group don't feel any huge rush to really leave anyway.

But we all know it's Oliver that is keeping us here.

We need to trust them to save him.

"Hey, sweetie, uh... um, I'm not really sure what I'm doing. But uh, I though, well, I thought it couldn't hurt to talk to you."

I stop outside of Oliver's door, realising that Carol is in there with him. Michonne had gone back to her own room. So I listen, pressing my palm against the surface. Eves dropping, I know... But hearing someone else speak to him is kind of comforting. Like he's not in a coma at all.

"You remember me tellin' you 'n' the girls about my grandmother?" I hear Carol ask, then she scoffs, embarrassed at herself for asking him a question in his vegetative state. "Uh, yeah, anyway. Well, when I was a little girl, 'bout twelve or thirteen, my grandma was dyin' of old age in the hospital, ninety-three years old. She was in and out o' consciousness for days until she passed. My mom, she stayed with her for the whole time. I visited her almost every day with my dad, and we'd always catch Mom talking to Grandma, chattin' away like they were sat havin' tea."

There is a long pause, I imagine Carol's worried expression as she silently debates with herself whether or not talking to him is sane. But to my relief, she decides for it and eventually begins talking again.

"I got this a few days ago - wanted to give it to you," she says quietly and I hear something that sounds like paper sliding against skin. "Found it when I was with Daryl lookin' for this place. _Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn_... Thought of you 'n' the girls when I saw it, so..."

I smile, closing my eyes tightly as I hold back my tears.

"I'd read it for you. But Carl told me you'd both read more, so, I'm not sure where you're up to now, uh," Carol says softly. "I suppose you wouldn't mind anyway though, huh?" she asks rhetorically. "I think, we got up to the part about the smoke." I listen as she flips through the pages to find the right one. "Here," she lets out a long sigh, clearing her throat and summoning the familiar Teachers Voice she must've used in Story Time. _**"The children fastened their eyes upon their bit of candle and watched it melt slowly and pitilessly away, saw the half inch of wick stand alone at last, saw the feeble flame rise and fall, climb the thin tower of smoke, linger at its top a moment, and then, the horror of utter darkness reigned."**_

She stops and everything goes silent for a moment, and after weeks, if there is any part of Oliver that can hear her, he finally gets his closure in finding out how the rest of that line finishes. It was not the serene, peaceful ending he had told me he once pondered briefly out on a hunt with Mika and Carol, but a short and dark finish that was not meant for happy endings or reassurance.

"It's like it's following me," Carol says after a moment, choosing not to continue the story anymore after all. "Wherever I go, it's always there," she whispers, her voice uttering the words as if they taste like acid. "It's here in Atlanta. Was at Terminus. An' the Grove. The Prison. Hershel's Farm. The CDC... even back home." She sighs, her breath hitching slightly. "The smoke... It never ends... Everything burns eventually... even I have... The old me was burned away a long time ago... It's jus' smoke now... 's all that's left anymore."

There is a long painful pause, and I have to wipe my eyes, ashamed at myself but unable to walk away. Needing to hear her.

"I want you to have these." I listen as she takes out something from her pocket. "The morning it all happened, at the Grove, they gave them to me to hold on to while they washed. I guess... I guess they just forgot to ask for them back. And, I couldn't let 'em go... after... I-I know I shoulda... but, I just... I just couldn't do it. They've been in my pocket ever since, an', I-I think you should have them. Right now you need them more than I do."

I want to know what she's talking about, but I only hear a zipper go, so whatever it is she must have put it in Oliver's supply bag or something. But I realise that I have heard much more than I should, so I force myself to stop, wiping my sore eyes and knocking on the door, causing Carol to make a short, quiet sniffing sound as she composes herself again.

"Come in," she says.

I walk into the room, pushing my lips into a wan smile. "Hey."

"Are you okay?" she asks, seeing my cast.

"Y-yeah." I lift my hand, flexing my fingers but stopping when it hurts. "I'm okay. Uh, thank you for keeping an eye on him."

"No trouble at all. I'm gonna get some supper, you want anything?"

"I'm okay." I know that she (along with most of our group) have noticed I'm not eating properly. "I'll, uh, get something later." I'm not sure it's true.

"Is everything okay, Carl?"

_No, _I think, sighing and arching my brow. _My boyfriend is in a coma and I'm a dirty, eves dropping, douche bag._

Carol tilts her head, her eyebrows lifting as she realises what I'm trying to admit. "You heard," she doesn't ask.

I nod, "Sorry."

She purses her lips, nodding. "It's okay."

"Carol..."

"Yeah."

"I-I don't think that... Um... I mean. Not everything's burnt, yet... Oliver hasn't... I haven't. Daryl, Dad, all of us... And, _you_ haven't... Not really. You've just changed. We all change... We don't, burn away... We haven't, not yet."

Carol's chin almost shakes for a second, but before she lets it she is suddenly hugging me tightly, sighing and trying not to let her breath hitch into my shoulder.

"Don't go disappearing on us, Carol," I whisper into the crook of her neck. "Don't burn away."

Then Carol pulls away, kissing the top of my head before leaving the room and closing the door behind her. I take a deep breath, reconstructing my thoughts before I walk over to Oliver, taking a seat where Carol was.

I stare at the IV wires and the cables that are keeping him alive, obsessively tracing around the bandage on his collarbone with my gaze, before pulling up the blanket to cover them, tears welling and unable to bear seeing his bruised and scratched and scraped and shot body anymore.

Steven gave him a patient robe, but I haven't dressed him in it yet, figuring I'd wait until the morning when I'm supposed to be helping Steven sponge bathe him. But for now he's okay with just his underwear and blankets as warmth.

I intend to sit back again, but I touch his arm, feeling his pulse against my skin. His beautiful pulse and too cold skin. I can't pull away. So I stroke my hand down his arm, taking his hand and clinging to it. Holding its limp form carefully in my protection, manoeuvring it with my cast to bring his pale, cool knuckles to my lips and press it there, breathing in his scent and closing my eyes as I beg him to come back to me.

"Oliver?" I stop, feeling like an idiot.

I remember when Dad was in the hospital. Mom spoke to him all the time. When I asked why she said that he could hear us, and that it'd help him wake up sooner. I never believed it, and I'm not sure if I do now, but Carol was talking to him a minute ago so I guess it's worth at least trying it too. So I watch him for a long moment, building my courage, craving to see any sign of understanding or presence in him. But he remains unresponsive, breathing slowly as the IV bag continues to drip into the tube that is connected to the back of his left hand.

"God, why can't we jus' have a normal teenage romance?" I ask him. "With drama and ridiculous fights and house parties where everyone gets hammered 'n' falls down the stairs, like in the movies and all of those books we read. With dumb break-ups, and cheesy make-ups five minutes later. And, peer pressure from stupid friends, and illegal drugs and under-age sex."

I can almost imagine him laughing at that.

But, to be honest, I don't feel like laughing at all.

"Why do we have to be the generation where all of that is switched for the dead rising to eat the living? Where people die and prisons become home, and kids kill... and you get shot."

It had started as a kind of joke, but what I'm saying is bitterly true, and I hate it. Purely hate it. There is a long pause in which I try to ignore the sadness that bleeds into every part of me. But a sob escapes me, the emotional cry suddenly escaping my lips before I can muser the will to suppress it, hissing through my teeth in my effort.

"Dammit, Oliver," I whimper, stroking the back of his hand.

I want to ask him how I can help him. How I can give him something to fight for like Steven said. But then I try to think of an answer to that. What is there here to fight for? What is there out their to fight for? Running scared? Torn apart my teeth or bullets? Losing more people? That's all there is. I cant think of an answer as to why Oliver would ever _choose _to fight, _choose _to stay, _choose _to fear. I'm not even sure that there's anything here anymore. But I can't bring myself to tell him that. I'm a coward. Too selfish to give him my permission to break the promise he made me. Too scared to face the mere thought of living here without him. So I ask him a question instead.

"Are you gonna wake up?"

No response, and I scold myself for expecting one.

"I-I need to know," I mutter desperately in spite of myself, gently squeezing his hand in my good one. "Please, I need to know what to do. The doctor, he said that he'd try as hard as he could. But he said it's your choice. He said... it's up to you." My voice cracks. "To choose to wake up. . . but."

I stop talking, unable to say it.

_Tell him._

Another cry escapes me, and I bury my face into the bed beside him, clutching his hand and wishing with everything in me that this isn't real. But it is, and I become agonisingly aware of that when I finally bring myself to look at him again.

My throat feels like a grenade. In that very moment it explodes, when all of that pent-up, unpredictable, deadly energy erupts out and away from itself, only it is deep, guttural wails that erupt from me. But they feel just as agonising as an explosion. Tears smother my face, making my hair stick to my skin and cling together in clumps, suddenly feeling as if everything is collapsing inside of me.

But I have to tell him this. Even if he can't hear me, I need to tell him... that I wont blame him for not keeping his word. I don't want him to feel guilty.

So... I force a deep, shaky breath.

". . . But it's alright."

The words feel like a disease on my tongue, and I begin crying again. Scrunching my eyes shut as it all pours out of me. Too hysterical to settle myself. So I give up and wail for Oliver, sorrow engulfing me so powerfully that I double over, leaning my head on the bed next to his side.

I hiccup a sob as I bring his hand to my mouth, pressing the end of his fingers to my lips and holding them there for dear life until I can find my voice again. It takes a long time, and finally my crying begins to weaver to a few hiccups a minute as I slowly ride out my hysteria. Oliver's hand remains in mine, my fingers weaved gently between his.

"I-it's alright..." I mutter again, my heart and gut aching in despair. "It... it's alright... if... if you choose not to wake up... Y-you don't have to keep your promise anymore. It's... it's alright, if... if you have to go... I love you... Always, Oliver... But, it's, alright, if you have to go."

I stay there for a long time, sobbing quieter and quieter until my breathing settles enough not to feel like exploding anymore. But my hands are still shaking violently, so violently that I almost don't notice the pressure against them as his hand gently squeezes mine. But it stops just as I realise it. Happening so suddenly that I am not sure if it was real.

My eyebrows grind into a furrow, tears dripping from my eyes as I stare at Oliver's hand in mine, waiting for the pressure to happen again. "O-Oliver?"

Pressure.

"Oliver!" I gasp, standing up now and holding his hand, staring at it. My heart races and my breathing quickens as I look at Oliver's face, waiting for him to open his eyes. Still hearing that relentless beep from the machine.

But then I notice it...

The beeping...

It's getting faster...

Another squeeze on my hand. Stronger than the last time. A smile breaks over my mouth, relief sweeping over me.

"Oliver?" I mutter.

But the squeeze becomes a twitch, and the twitch becomes a jolt, and suddenly Oliver's hand pulls itself out of my grasp and tenses at an odd angle.

That's when the convulsing begins.

I startle, stepping away from him. "No," I blurt shakily, forcing my legs forward as I grab his hand again, as if it will help. "No, n-no. Ol-"

But his hand leaps out of mine, and I watch in horror as Oliver's spine rises from the hospital bed, convulsing and writing as his seizure takes over his body.

"HELP!" I scream, clambering back to him and trying to hold his body down, "Stop! Oliver, no! Not like this! No! Don't hurt. Don't hurt!"

Oliver starts grunting, the air forcing its way from his lungs as his whole body shakes and contorts and writhes on the hospital bed, wires and cables whipping and tangling with his limbs and threatening to unplug themselves.

"HELP! S-SOMEBODY HELP, PLEASE!"

The next few moment is a blur of panic and terror as forms pour into the room.

Then someone is dragging me towards the exit.

"Get him out of here!" Steven commands.

"No! Lemme go!" I fight violently, slipping from my captor's gasp and clambering for the convulsing teenager. "OLIVER!"

He makes a noise, like a strangled scream, the whites of his eyes flickering from behind his eyelids as his orbs roll to the back of his head. Steven shouts at me, fumbling with trying to keep the cables untangled, but a few of them unplug from the machine, and then one suddenly rips out of the back of Oliver's hand and blood spurts out so fast that it splatters over my face.

"STOP!" I scream so loud that my throat rasps my voice. "YOU'RE KILLING HIM!"

"Get him OUT of here!" Steven blares furiously.

Panic. Horrible, mind numbing panic.

"No, no. No! NO!" I scream, my hysteria building as I fight, but my father is too strong, practically lugging me around the middle and carrying me out of the room kicking and screaming for him to stop.

All I see is Steven and Carol in there, and Oliver as he continues to slam through his bloody seizure, his jaw snapping on itself and awful grunting and yelping noises emitting themselves from his convulsing lungs. The blood. It continues to splash from his wrist, more coming from under the bandage over his bullet wound. The bullet wound that isn't supposed to be bleeding anymore!

But then the door slams closed, and I snap, bellowing for him, wailing and fighting anyone that tries to stop me, until something heavy crashes into me, forcing my fists to immobilise, and it's Tyreese, my father, Daryl, Tara and Michonne, all of their faces blurred into my tear filled eyes, holding me down as I relentlessly scream for them to stop, for them to let me go, for them to save Oliver's life. Traumatised and grieved and terrorised. I become too hysterical, too unhinged.

Then something pricks my arm, and everything begins to slow against my will, until it stops all together and the whole world goes black.

**Notes**

Ahh! Don't hate me! I did warn you! Don't worry this will only be temporary. I swear xx I don't want this story to become too unrealistic. Like, when things start happening that are too extra ordinary. Oliver is only dreaming of The Prison, okay? Lori isn't really there. It's all in his head, and he's only listening to them through the phone because Hershel must have once told him that Rick did too and subconsciously remembered it. It's important for the story I have planned so please trust me. Ah! I'm so scared that this'll fuck up! So yeah, Oliver isn't really talking to the dead. He's just got a very vivid imagination and a strangely coincidental memory :) Just needed you all to know because I'm purposely not explaining that in the story yet. X

I had to have the "Stop! You're killing him!" part, just like Rick said it in the show when Carl had his seizure. They are father and son, it made sense to me for them to react the same way :)

Ahh! Did anyone notice the special mention? Conner Hill is a minor original character from the prequel to this story, **Stale M&amp;M's: The Stories of Oliver's Past** (TSOOP). He was one of Patrick's best friends, and Oliver had a crush on his big sister :)

_**Conner's story:**__ His sister, Dani, __(Introduced in chapter 14 of SOOP) __was doing __an__ apprenticeship with __some__ architecture company. When the outbreak hit, Conner travelled to Atlanta to find his sister when West Virginia was evacuated. He got there, maybe with some of his family. But then all the bombing shit happened, maybe he barely escaped, maybe he got burnt and that's why he was burnt when Steven found him, and so he was taken to Grady and blah blah blah. Tried to escape with that girl, maybe they had a romantic thing going on, I dunno, then she died in the process and so he went right back to Grady, turned himself in, then killed himself two weeks later :(_

RIP Conner Hill

**The next chapter is his awakening... The question is... as what? ***evil laugh* **Nah, I'm just fucking with you... or am I?**

Ugh, I'm really sorry if this idea is really shit. I was really psyched about it, but I'm so afraid that it is tedious like this, but maybe I've just proof read it so fucking much that I hate it all anyway (I bet I still missed a shit tonne of typos). But it will only be for one more chapter, then it'll be normal again :S

As always,

Happy reading xxx :_)_


	47. Lori's Three Questions

**I UPLOADED TWO CHAPTERS TODAY. MAKE SURE YOU DIDN'T MISS THE LAST. :D ENJOY!**

**Akihiro1123 **Thank you. Yeah, I'm in the SLOW process of editing them all again. I'm up to chapter 2 atm hahaha Okay... wait, no no... Lemme just get this out there. Oliver is not _'the woman'_ in the relationship, neither is he _'the man'_. Same goes for Carl. They are both men in the relationship because they both have male reproductive organs. Sorry, I'm not trying to be patronizing or offending. It's just a really big pet peeve of mine when people say gay couples always have a girl and a boy in the relationship. Just, no. With a _lesbian/gay/straight/retarded/walker/cat/dog/penguin... ANY couple at all... They are who they are._ They both might like to paint their nails, or they both might like to go camping, or one might like to eat snow, or one might like the colour blue, or one might like iphone more than android. _Oliver and Carl are both boys - men - whatever. They're people. Human._ Okay? :) Okay. X But, ah! Thank you so much for your beautiful support! Xxx Sorry, I just kind of went off on one there haha

**Uriel867 **Again, I'm such a fail. I had to look up what bottoming meant... But anyway! To answer you. I don't know who will. It's not exactly important. Both of them are capable. Just because one acts more dominant doesn't mean he has to (dot dot dot). Haha, I'm not sure I'm comfortable explaining that without a story behind it, haha. Thank you for your support, it makes me smile so freaking much xxx

**Randomness **Thank you. It's been so fun writing his character development over the two seasons so far, much more to come, bad and good... Eeep! Oh, man! I love Enid! I think she's super great and such an interesting character. It's nice to see a young female character who doesn't need someone to take care of her! I'm also super excited to see what you all think of where this story goes with her too! :D And yes! You all got five kisses!

**ILoveGoten1999 **In my head, Oliver is the face of Alexander Martella. Vincent Martella (The guy who plays Patrick) is Alexander's older brother anyway. So they are actually brothers in real life, too, haha and they look super similar, with the brown hair and eyes and the little under-bite thing going on - which is completely just totally adorable :)

**Rolo-chan **I love that song, too. Keaton Henson is a really great artist. I love "Lying To You" and "Your Health". Agh, just pure magic. Yeah, I try to keep the theme of the show very clear. It wouldn't do to have prancy, energetic music and such in the chapters (unless the scene was set like that, which, unfortunately for the characters, they rarely are) :D THANK YOU!

**Bree **First, what a lovely user name x I hope the last and this chapter is enough of a fix until next Sturday. I will be writing more. You all will see one new chapter every week now until the story is as caught up to the present as I am comfortable with (as there will probably be some blank spaces after the season finale (I haven't seen it yet. 12 hours to go... Oh! Don't worry, Oliver will...

**Beginning of chapter:**

"**Sinking Man****" by ****Of Mice and Men**

**Carl's POV**

Oliver had a lot of illnesses growing up. His skin was thin and fragile and would cut and bruise easily. His lungs were weak and highly reactive to new environments and any air-born allergies, which wasn't helped by his asthma. He would get ill at the drop of a hat, getting colds and flues if he merely saw someone sneeze, and his stomach was so weak he would only have to think or smell something unpleasant to throw up.

A pretty sick kid to say the least. It's amazing that he never got sick back at The Prison when the flu hit.

I know all of this because of all the time I've spent with him. Learning more about him than I think I ever will about anyone, and him to me also. Luckily, by his teenage years, he grew out of most of it, bar his asthma and pitifully weak stomach. Which does still cause him problems every now and again... but it hasn't killed him yet.

. . . Yet.

I'm starting to really dislike that word.

Anyway, it's pretty easy to expect a kid like Oliver to have had to take a lot of trips to the doctor because of all this. They took tests, tweaked his diet and monitored him for a little while at home. But they never managed to get an official diagnosis or treatment other than the obvious. He was just a strange, fragile kid that would hopefully grow out of his ailments.

Once I came out of my sedation, shaken and traumatised and terrified, Steven explained what had happened.

It was a haemorrhage.

_Blood loss... He had the seizure from blood loss. Unfortunately a pretty common side affect of getting shot is quite a bit of blood loss._

So Steven was wrong, before. Oliver's bleeding wasn't under control. It had merely been continuing unnoticed. A slow enough pace not to kill him, in the time it had, but enough for it to suddenly all become life threatening. He went back into surgery immediately after his seizure stopped, the bleeding got worse, _everything _got worse. Steven worked hard to find the artery that had been hit by the bullet. A hairline abrasion, or, something like that. But he stopped the flow, but there was a lot of internal bleeding. Steven said that Oliver needed a blood transfusion soon or he wouldn't make it, problem was, he didn't know Oliver's blood type.

But with all of those stories of Oliver at the doctors... the subject had come up on a few occasions.

Oliver's blood type.

It's O negative.

A rare blood type and the only one that can give to all other blood types... which is good. The trouble is, an O negative patient can't get a transfusions from anyone with a blood type other than O negative. That just sums Oliver up in one. He gives everything he has to others but he never even asks for it back.

A good man.

That's Oliver De Luca.

We all knew that it would be a slim chance that anyone here would have the same blood type as him, and I drowned in grief, knowing that he was going to die, knowing that soon I would have to watch everything that is the boy I love, fade and disappear from him. I'd have to hold his hand, his pulse... until I couldn't feel it anymore... and then... what always happens would have to be done...

But we were wrong.

Glenn.

He has O negative blood, too.

But he wasn't sure. He said that was what his sister had told him from the time he got hit by a car when he was a kid. If he was wrong, it would kill Oliver... but then again, if he didn't do anything, Oliver was going to die anyway...

So he gave his blood...

It was our only option, and we waited. Either for Oliver to stabilise or for him to reject the transfusion, we didn't know.

But it worked.

Glenn saved Oliver's life, and I will never be able to tell him enough of how grateful I am.

That was five days ago.

Oliver hasn't woken up yet.

But he will.

He has to.

It isn't all just waiting though. Oliver needs medication and to stay clean and to get the right nutrients, along with other things which I'd prefer not to mention in full detail. I help a lot. Supplying the food, which is just a well balanced intravenous solution. I replace the IV bags as well as supply them, and I help Steven sponge bath him about every other day too, things like that, which I do as carefully as I can manage, and with as much dignity as is possible, but most other professional things like taking care of Oliver's wounds or changing his catheter, Steven will do. But Oliver is healing well. His ribs are still pretty messed up, and once of twice his asthma got a little tough until I realised that he was sleeping on feather pillows (which when I got the out of her I damn near burnt them as punishment). But all in all, we've avoided infection so far, and his bullet wound isn't bleeding anymore, for real now, and is stitched and bandaged and improving. So, Oliver _is_ getting better,

I haven't left his room since Oliver's seizure except to go to the bathroom or to collect my food. Which is where I am now, in the cafeteria collecting my guinea pig and sprouts. Strange combination, I know, but I keep that to myself as I am in no place to complain. What I wouldn't do for some damn corn, though.

I leave the cafeteria instead of going and eating with Michonne, Tyreese and Sasha who are eating their breakfast over at a bench in here. A woman who I don't know notices me leaving and smiles at me sympathetically, as if to say, _"I'm sorry that your boyfriend is going to die."_

Oliver and I are some what of a popular subject at the moment. "Puppy Love" is what I keep hearing idiots whisper to each other when they think I can't hear them. They don't do the same for Glenn and Maggie, or Rosita and Abraham. But that doesn't really surprise me. They are older and are naturally taken more seriously. Also, Maggie is still distraught and angry after what happened with Beth, and Abraham and Rosita don't really make their relationship obvious. That's not to say that I do either, but people caught on after Oliver's seizure. I got pretty hysterical, mumbling things without meaning to, and, well, once one person realised that there was a _"Gay Teen Couple"_ here, the news (that didn't need to be nearly as important as it became) spread pretty fast.

But I ignore them all.

I don't have the patience to entertain these strangers.

"Mornin'," I say to Oliver when I close the door behind me.

He remains still, breathing steadily, his heart beat _beepbeepbeep_ing away in that brilliant machine. It would become irritating if it wasn't the only noise that means that Oliver is alive. Which in turn causes the sound to be music to my ears.

I smile as I walk over to him, "They're serving guinea pig again today. I don't understand how it's so normal here." Talking to Oliver has become some what easier of late. Sometimes I do it so much that I forget he isn't even awake, until I do remember, and I have to try hard not to let it hurt more than it already does.

I take a seat on the same chair as always, placing my tray on the beside table before quickly running my fingers over Oliver's relaxed palm.

He twitches at my touch.

The first time that happened after his seizure I thought the worst, but when nothing else happened and he just continued sleeping... _comaing,_ I asked Steven and he told me it was normal for coma patients to react to physical stimuli sometimes. That it was a good sign. That he is still in there somewhere.

Anyway, as a result of all of this, it has become a sort of an obsessive ritual for me to do this to him, and so for a moment every time I greet Oliver, I run my fingers over his palm, and every once in a while he will react to me.

I smile, satisfied as I withdraw my hand and begin my meal.

I've gotten pretty used to this place. The fact that it's the only reason Oliver is alive most likely doing a lot to aid in that though, but all the same, it's not all that bad. The people keep to themselves, much like we do, but we're on good terms, despite everything. We've been helping them on supply runs, so that's sort of been our truce so far.

Oliver's hospital room? It's okay. Cosy. Warm. Clean. Steven said it was Beth's room before, which I just try not to think about too much, but that's difficult when I spend all of my time in here with nothing but my thoughts. Walking in, the window is directly opposite the door with Atlanta just beyond. On the left against the wall is a dresser. On the right there's the hospital bed, and the bedside table on the left of it and my chair on the right, and there is a small, worn poster on the wall behind me saying "Get Well Soon" with a blue clock in it and the word "Now" written where the numbers would be, over and over again twelve times. I can't decide if it's ironic or insulting.

I have gotten pretty used to my cast, too, still as purple as ever, and I can do most things without hindrance or pain. Like now, I can hold my tray steady with the hard part of the cast while I use my good hand to fork at my food.

"You know?" I say to Oliver with a mouthful of guinea pig, twirling my fork between my fingers. "It's actually not all that bad. I mean, once you get past the chewy parts, and the guinea pig part... An', I've eaten rat before - that was disgusting compared. But, I guess either's better than dog food, huh...? Still, nothing compares to pudding."

I see Oliver's Adam's apple move slightly in his throat, and I smirk, taking another bite of food.

"Whenever I see you move," I begin quietly, a soft smile on my lips as I look up at him without moving my head, "I can't help but think you're in there tryina talk back to me."

I continue my meal, and just as I am about to finish I hear someone knock on the door.

"Come in," I say.

"Mornin', son," Dad says as he walks in. He sees the mostly-empty plate on my lap and lets a smile pull at his mouth. I haven't eaten much of anything since we got here, and this is probably the largest meal I have had since the Church. "Good to see you eatin'."

I nod, scooping up the last of the sprouts – almost as bad as string beans – and then leaving the tray on the bedside table.

Dad glances at Oliver, "How's 'e doin'?"

"He's fine," I answer, resting my spine back on the chair, sighing tiredly. "How was the run?"

Glenn, Maggie, Abraham and Rosita went out on a run yesterday evening, getting supplies to prepare for our move when Oliver wakes up. It's still being decided where we are going after he does. When Eugene woke up the night Oliver was shot, he insisted we still go to D.C., that there was still suppose to be a safe place up there. But again, we're not making any decisions yet, and we're not leaving without Oliver. It took a while, but Dad managed to convince everyone to stay. Maggie especially as she hates it here.

"Yeah, they got back a few hours ago."

I nod, sighing with relief. "Good. They get what they need?"

Dad tenses his jaw and nods uncomfortably. I know why, and it makes my stomach jolt in worry.

"Guess they wanna leave even more now, huh?"

Dad frowns, "Maggie does, Eugene an' Rosita, too. But Maggie's not going anywhere without Glenn." Glenn had made an oath that he would stay in case Oliver has another haemorrhage and needs another transfusion, and well, Maggie was in no position to argue seeing as she cares about Oliver like family, too. "Rosita's not leaving without Abraham." Abraham has pretty much lost all motivation in leaving at all after discovering the lie. "Eugene? Well, he can leave if he wants to. Don't think anyone'll stop him." I don't think anyone will even notice except Tara, and it isn't like he would leave without us anyway.

So...

Oliver is safe.

For now.

But that is enough at the moment.

"You should go for a walk around the hospital," Dad suggests as he opens the window opposite me.

I snap my gaze from Oliver, who I had been staring at in a stupor of thought for a moment without realising it. But I rub my eyes and shake my head, making a noise at the back of my throat that was supposed to be a sentence somewhere in there.

"Maybe you should just go and rest," Dad changes his mind. "How much sleep've you gotten lately?"

"Enough," I lie.

Dad gives me an exasperated look, drooping his shoulders and looking at me sideways. "I'm not blind, Carl. I've seen you asleep, what? – maybe, twice since we got here, an' that was only for a little while."

"I sleep at night."

"No, you don't," Dad states, those eyebrows sky-rocketing. "I can hear you from outside talking to him."

My neck and cheeks heat up instantly, and my embarrassment shuts my mouth and forces my gaze to drop to the floor, unable to tell if my quickening heartbeat is from anger or sadness, or simply overwhelmed exhaustion.

Dad crouches in front of me to get me to look at him, but I look away further. "Son, I'm not saying it's bad. Hell, if I was in the same position I'd do the same."

"With Mom?" I speak suddenly, snapping my gaze to him at the first opportunity to speak of my mom to him since she died.

But he seems less reluctant to talk more about her, so he nods and stands up, and I take the hint.

"I am tired," I admit, "and my body feels like it's tryina figure out whether it wants to run a hundred miles or drop right where it is 'n' never get up again. So, I think I should just stay sat here... to save, _collateral damage._"

Dad smirks, a laugh falling between his lips. "You sounded like Oliver for a moment."

I smile to myself, taking that as a compliment even if Dad meant it simply as a statement.

"Go take a run," Dad adds softly. "An' then jus', drop where you stop. You're as safe as you can be here."

"Never let your guard down," I repeat what he told me and Oliver a week ago under my breath.

Dad hears me, because apparently I'm so tired that I was convinced he wouldn't. "That's right. But you should still clear your head."

"Where's Judy?" I ask the last thing I need to know before I let myself go.

"With Tyreese 'n' Tara," he tells me, then pauses, waiting for me to move and lifting his brow when I don't. "Go, Carl."

So I do.

I really, really do.

I'm not sure how long I have been running. I'm not even sure if Dad meant for me to literally_ run_. But I am. I'm running so fast that I'm not sure I will ever stop. I can feel it fill me. The exhilarating feeling of my legs moving faster than they need to with no threat chasing me. But it's without that threat that the exhilaration is so incredible. Se incredible that I can't remember a time that I've ever felt better.

So I keep running.

Flying through hallways. Hurtling past rooms. Climbing up staircases higher and higher. Dodging around a few residents who live here and happen across my marathon, all now wearing their own clothes and free to go where they please (most stayed, for a reason I couldn't understand). I ignore their confused calls after me, mumbling several, _Sorry!_s to them as I rocket past their startled forms. Until I clamber out onto the roof, so caught up in my rush that I miss the sudden start of the vegetable garden in front of me and fall straight into it, rolling violently across the loose pebbles and into the ordered dirt and foliage.

"Aghh!" I yelp as my injured hand slams onto the side of the small structure, and I topple off of it and crash to the ground with a thump. I lie there, heaving my breath and wincing terribly. I peek out of one eye as the sun bores down on me, relieved when I see that no one is up here to have seen that. "Oh, jeeze," I mumble, wincing again as I examine my cast-hand.

I flex my fingers.

"Hmaagh!" another cry escapes me as the searing pain rockets through my extremity, throbbing. "Oh, don't do that again," I tell myself, gently resting both hands on the ground beside me._ Jesus, I do sound like Oliver. _"And then just stop where you drop – that's what Dad said," I say in spite of myself.

Then I burst out laughing, the ironic coincidence in it all proving to hit my funny bone, hard.

Convinced that I am going mad, I pull myself to sit up, working hard to settle my laughter. But failing. So I continue to giggle like an idiot as I swivel around and search for my hat, and with my good hand, reaching over to where it had fallen off among a slightly crooked green bean plant. I push the hat on my head, still chuckling as I bring my knees up to my chest and rest my arms on them.

But my hand throbs, causing tears to well in my eyes from the pain. But then I start really crying, feeling my heart suddenly wrench apart in my chest, and soon, my face is contorting and I double over, sobbing into the pebbles and collapsing into a messy, emotional wreck that this is all making me into.

It's too much.

So I keep crying. Hysterically. Uncontrollably. Over it all... Oliver. Beth. The Fake Cure. Bob. Terminus. The Prison. Hershel. The Governor and what he did. Mika and Lizzie. Patrick. Mom. That kid I shot. Woodbury. The Farm. Shane. Dale. Sophia. The CDC. The Quarry. Everything. Absolutely everything.

It's dark before I am finally empty of everything I have held in for so long, and by that time I am silent and still and feeling as light as a feather but as heavy as a rock all at the same time. So I stay where I am, curled up on the floor, shivering and breathing and feeling so alive that I don't know how to deal with it all.

Until the liberation becomes so overwhelming that I simply pass out, giving in to my physical and mental exhaustion.

**Oliver's POV**

_Heavy._

_But not heavy._

_**Why do I feel like this? Why have I felt like this for a long time now?**_

_I'm not sure what happened. I was listening to Carol... Then Carl showed up, like he usually does... I heard what he said... It scared me, terrified me, and I tried to force myself back._

_But it was too soon. _

_The walls. They started to bleed, and i__t was my blood. Breaking through reality and draining into my imagination, pouring from my body and invading my safe place. __After that, I just sort of... came back. Lori didn't know what had happened either... and so... we just continued to be, I guess._

_Being._

_I remember being stowed away in that camper van with Michonne, Hershel and The Governor. _

"_I'VE FOUND A WAY!" The Governor once shouted at Hershel as I hunched on the floor bleeding from my temple, and Michonne glared death at the monster. "I'm tryin' hard," he said. "All kinds o' ways I could do this. This way you get to live, and I get to be."_

_At the time I expected him to finish his sentence... But I get it now. He _had_ finished his sentence. All he wanted was to be. Only problem was by what means he intended to do it __by__._

_It's a lot less eventful that I thought. Being. Given how desperately people seemed to want it before. But it has its perks. I don't have to do anything I don't want to. I'm content, all the time (minus while the walls bled, as that really wasn't all that nice) But it's kind of frustrating, too. Disorientating. It feels like I've been here for months, but it also feels like I've only been here for a few minutes, too. Like time doesn't mean anything here except by how I perceive it. Here is sempiternal. But not sempiternal like him._

_I took a look around, investigating this place and trying to see if it had any clues as to how I can go back. But nothing. Nothing does anything here. Not even the showers work. No taps. There's no food either, anywhere. The boxes of canned goods? They're all empty. I checked. Even the books in the library are blank, that's where I was a while ago, staring furiously down at the blank page that was suppose to be the first page in Sherlock Holmes. But everything is just for decoration. Like a doll house. Pointless and irrelevant. But I can't help but notice how unconditionally beautiful this whole place is._

_I still have the phone. It rang a few hours after everything stopped bleeding and hurting and draining. Glenn was on the phone. He wasn't talking to me though, and I couldn't hear him very well. But he was there, and that was good enough. _

_So I keep the phone with me wherever I go, hanging loosely by my side in my hand with the constant dragging noise of the frayed cable as it follows close behind__ me like a pet dog__. I'm just trying to figure everything out. Why I got so close to going back. _How _I got so close. How I can do it again... _

_I heard my brother yesterday. _

_In the cafeteria. _

_He called me Young Sir and asked what I was doing. It scared the crap out of me, and for a moment I just stared at where his voice came from, confused and sad and happy and missing him all at the same time. I said I was looking for the prongs. I couldn't see him, but he was there. He asked why I needed them so bad, and I told him I wanted to use them to break open the telephone. He laughed and just told me to go enjoy myself and to not tamper with things I don't understand, and then he just wasn't there anymore._

_I still see Lori a lot. She comes and finds me at different times depending on how alone I am feeling. She talks to me about things I need to get off my chest, or we talk about unimportant stuff. Sometimes we don't even speak at all. We just be. Until she announces that it's getting late and she has to go. I followed her a few days ago. Back to where she goes off to, and like I had suspected she goes and sees everyone else, disappearing into nothing so that I can't see her anymore. _

_I roam the prison like a ghost. Only, it's opposite here. _

_Here, it's the living haunting the dead._

_The sun feels strange here too, I have noticed. It's warm and bright. But it doesn't burn or blind me if I stay out in it and stare up at its rays. That's what I've been doing for a little while now. Led on my back with the phone on my stomach, listening to nothing and staring at the white sky._

_I had just gotten off the phone with Carl and Rick. Carl has been talking to me a lot, which is really nice. He's still hating the guinea pig no matter how much he tells me it isn't that bad. Rick had just dismissed him of his 'guard' duties over me, telling his son to stretch his legs and clear his head. I'm glad. I've hated listening to him suppressing himself, __penting himself up, __driving himself crazy worrying about me. But he's hopeful of my awakening now. Which I can't decide is better or not. I just hope that if I don't wake up he'll be okay eventually. __–__ "Stop thinking about that."__ –__ That's what Lori tells me whenever I mention not waking up __or__ staying here._

_Just then, I recognise her footsteps walking towards me from the outside cafeteria. I sit up quickly and glance at her, "Hey."_

"_How're you today, baby?"_

"_I'm fine."_

"_Jus' fine?" She always insists I tell her more. Just like my mom would have after a day of school. _

"_It was really, really fine."_

_Her hands fly up in joking surrender. "Alright, alright. Can't blame a woman for tryin'."_

_I grin, but after a moment it fades._

"_What's wrong, baby?__"_

_I squint. "__Why don't you ever talk about them? Everybody else?"_

_She sighs and smiles her familiar sad smile, "I thought you followed me," she accuses, cocking an eyebrow, though not in a scolding manner. "It's not fair – mentioning them to you... Talkin' about 'em'll only upset you."_

"_No," I assure, "it won't upset me." No answer. __"__Do they ever ask about me?"_

_Lori holds my eye contact for a tense moment, before nodding stiffly. "All the time. Patrick especially."_

"_I talked to him yesterday."_

"_I know. Said he gave you quite a scare."_

_I try not to laugh in my embarrassment. "__What does he say to you?"_

"_He wants you to see him, really see him, all the time. But he knows what it would mean if you did. An' he wants you to go back. He wants you to go back to your family."_

"_He is my family."_

"_That's not what he means though and you know it,"Lori grumbles._

_I nod, cursing myself because I am doing exactly what I said I wouldn't. So I quickly wipe me tears before Lori sees them._

"_I'm sorry," she apologises. "I knew I shouldn't have told you."_

"_It's okay."_

_She holds her hand out to me and I take it, letting her pull me to stand. "C'mon, sweetie."_

_We walk across the courtyard to the building opposite, taking a seat in the shade. The same place Carl found me before we shared our first kiss. Lori keeps hold of my hand, lacing her fingers in mine and resting our tangle of skin on her knee. She motions to the phone in my other hand, which I had subconsciously carried over here without even needing to remember to do so._

"_Get any calls today?" she asks._

_I snap my head around to look at her, widening my eyes, "Y-you know about that?"_

_She frowns, "Of course I do!" she says, her expression curving as she lets out a laugh. "I was the one who left the phone there for ya."_

"_Oh."_

_She smiles and looks out over the courtyard, and for a long time we don't say anything else. Until in the end it is me who speaks first._

"_That day. When the walls started bleeding," I begin.__ "When _I_ started bleeding."_

"_Yeah, baby," the woman reassures me._

"_Lori, I felt him," I blurt on a mutter, my eyebrows twitching upwards and shaking my head slightly. "And I heard him so clearly. I-I was so close to going back."_

_A smile pulls at the corner of her mouth; Lori's silent way to tell me not to get carried away with myself and asking me to explain a little better._

_I sigh and relax again, lifting my hands to rub my eyes. "Sorry," I mumble, waiting a moment before talking again as I reconstruct my sentence. "But I think I can go back. Really go back. I just need to try again."_

_Lori smiles warmly, but still doesn't say anything._

"_You think I can't do it," I stat__e disappointedly. _

"_I think you can do it."_

_I look away at the fence line, sighing and swallowing. "So you think I _shouldn't _do it?" I ponder simply._

"_And why would I think that?"_

_This is Lori's routine with me. If I have made I comment or asked a question that I don't know the answer to, (pretty much every question I ask) she always answers me with one of her three questions. Like Rick does to strangers, only instead of, "How many walkers have you killed?" then, "How many people have you killed?" and, "Why?", Lori's three questions are, "What do you think?" or, "Why would I think that?" or, "Why do you think that?"_ _It's like she's suppose to be my personal shrink or something. At times I welcome it. Other times I hate it. But right now I have no opinion __yet__. So I shrug, and when a minute or so passes I break the quiet __again__. _

"_Would you?" I ask. "Go back, I mean."_

_I expect her to answer with one of her three questions like she usually does. _

_But I'm wrong._

"_Without hesitation," she answers instantly, the surety in her words causing me to take a sharp breath. "Remember when you told me about Judith?"_

_I nod and furrow my brow._

"_How she was so pure and beautiful and good," she says. "And how you can't help but fall in love with her as soon as you see her. And Carl... __how it felt to hold him... __You said he makes you feel __sempiternal__."_

_I nod again._

_Suddenly, Lori's expression tenses. Angry. "So _what_ is stopping you from going back to them?"_

_I'm stumped. Taken aback. _

"_They. _Need_ you, Oliver."_

"_I don't know how," I mutter, feeling my expression fighting to contort in my frustration._

"_Then you _figure_ it out," she tells me sternly._

"_I'm trying!"_

_I become overwhelmed by the pressure that all of this is putting on me. The fear and frustration picking away at me like a crow picks away at a walker's bones. I get so caught up in it all that I pull my knees up to my chest in my frustration, burying the balls of my palms into my eyes as I cry like a child into my knees._

"_I'm trying," I mumble again, softer now and soothed as Lori begins to gently stroke the back of my head. __"I'm trying."_

"_I know, baby, I know," she whispers to me, kissing the top of my head._

_It takes a while, and I would feel completely mortified by embarrassment if I wasn't already so mortified by everything else, and so, much to my appreciation, Lori waits patiently for me to settle, running her thumb over the back of my neck until I trust myself enough to move my face from my hands and relax again._

_I sniff, wiping my eyes and nose on my flannel sleeve. Then I stand up, Lori joining me._

"_You okay?" she asks wearily._

_I nod, "Yeah..." I keep nodding. "I'm going back. I'm going back today," I tell myself more than I tell her. _

_Lori smiles warmly, nodding in approval. "That's my boy." _

_I hug her, enveloping my arms around her middle and burying my face into her shoulder. She sighs and kisses the top of my head, squeezing around my shoulders, and when I pull away my heart swells as I see the tears welling in her eyes. But she is smiling triumphantly... proudly._

"_I'll miss you," I mumble._

"_Shh... No you wont, baby," she insists, though not in an insulted way or in any way to say that I don't care for her, just in a way that tells me that she believes that what she says is 'just how it is'. S__o s__he wraps her arms around me for one final hug, kissing the top of my head again. "You'll be okay. My sweet boy, you'll be okay."_

_Finally, we both break apart and I turn towards The Prison, my eyes falling to the floor, wanting to take one last glance – __"__Don't look back," Lori tells me gently._

_My breath catches, remembering Rick utter those same words to Carl._

"_Don't look back," she says again. "Jus' keep walkin__'__."_

_I can feel her... crumbling away. I can feel all of it. Dissolving into nothing behind me. Disappearing...__ So __I look up to The Prison, taking a step towards it, feeling that vacancy behind me, as if the moment I step back I will fall through nothing. So I don't step back, or turn around to see... _

"_Goodnight, Love."_

_A tear rolls down my cheek at her fading voice, knowing I will never see her again after this._

_So, taking a deep breath, I count to ten, and I start walking._

_I have no idea how I know this will work... I just know, and the closer I get to the building, the lighter and heavier I feel. As if I am being lifted from the earth, only, with a sack of bricks tied around my torso. _

_But I don't stop. _

_I have to do this._

_I get to the door and pull it open, stumbling inside. Suddenly everything becomes brighter, but darker at the same time. As if I am closing my eyes while someone shines a torch at my face. The heavy weightless feeling amplifying as I rush to close the door behind me, squinting and wincing and feeling the whole outside world crumbling away like a silently falling castle ruin._

_Then it all stops for a second, everywhere falling silent and still as I take in my surroundings._

_It's the same building to the music room._

_I push myself from the door and wander down the hallway, silently tip toeing further into the building, until I freeze suddenly, hearing that I'm definitely not alone in here._

"_Ah!"_

_I stumble backwards onto my ass, flinching and panting and panicking as the creature steps around the corner into my view._

_But then I smile, my breath catching in my happiness. _

_It's him... _

"_Carl." _

_But not as the boy I love and adore with everything I possess, no, for the second time in my dreams... _

_Carl is his buck._

_I clamber to my feet, staring in awe at him as he squares up to me across the hallway. Before letting out a low grumble and turning around, leading the way further into The Prison._

_I follow him on impulse, letting him guide me through the first wreck room down the hallways and corridors, both glad and confused as to why it is him leading me this time rather that me leading him like the last time we met like this. But I don't question it, trusting him like I always will._

_He leads me right to the music room, standing beside it. I watch as his black crystals for eyes flicker from me to the door handle, so I pull it down and push it open, going in first._

_The door slowly swings closed behind him, and I sort of just stand there for a moment, watching as he makes a large circle around the edge of the room, finally coming to stand directly in front of me._

"_What do I do?"_

_He only blinks, slowly breathing in and out, elegantly shifting his weight on his back legs._

"_How do I go back?"_

_Another breath, another blink._

"_I don't know how."_

_His left ear shifts to listen to something outside of the door, crumbling, and I know that I could never step out of that door again._

"_I either go back... or I die."_

_His focus returns to me in a heartbeat, and his long, animal face tenses, flattening his ears back to the top of his neck in outrage. So ferocious that I flinch for a second, only to relax and sigh, knowing that he won't hurt me._

"_But I have to keep my promise."_

_His ears prick forwards again, softening his face and letting out a soft, quiet grunt of approval._

"_I have to keep my promise." _

_I step closer, __hesitating only a moment before __lifting my hands to gently graze them over his muzzle, and when he presses into my touch, I stroke over his jaw to cup either side of his cheeks. _

"_I have to keep my promise." _

_I take a deep breath and press my forehead to the front of his face, pressing my lips to the smooth fur above his nose. _

"_I have to keep my promise."_

_His form seems to dissolve against my skin, because when I open my eyes, Carl is gone. Then, suddenly, the ground crumbles away underneath me and I drop through nothing. Spinning and flying and falling with no way to control it. But I'm not afraid. It's like I know what is happening... so I let it happen... and it does happen. _

_Slowly, and then all at once..._

I'm awake.

**Notes**

God, I'm sorry about that train wreck. Hope it was okay, back to normal now, or, ish, 'cause you know, Oliver's not actually in the show. Haha

**Preview: The whole chapter will be focussed on the boys, I figured I owed it to you guys seeing as I seem to always separate them. But no more :) It wouldn't surprise me if most of you don't believe me at all.**

Every chapter here on out will be updated every Saturday.

As always,

Happy reading xxx :_)_


	48. I Didn't Get the Corn

**The Flash Fanatic **Thank you x

**DarthGranola **aw thank you so much. Yeah, luckily Carl hasn't really needed to use his hand yet. Haha

**Guest **Thank you! Haha, imagine a Carl, Oliver, Ron, Mikey, Enid love triangle! Or, whatever the hell it'd be called. Haha, nah, love triangles are just about the most annoying thing to me. Plus, a lot of you have pointed out that it would be too out of character to have either of the boys cheat on each other. But, you'll just have to see haha (don't jump to conclusions though, not yet at least, they're waaaay off in the future xx)

**Guest **Hahaha, I'm not sure if HOLY CROP was a typo, but I hope not, because, fuck, I'm saying that all the time now. Thanks! Yeah, I wrote it about two months ago, and when I saw the scene where he's running through the forest with Enid it reminded me so much of it. xx

**MarianaP **Lovely name btw x omg omg thank you! ;) I'll do my best xxx

**Guest **Thank you! xxx

* * *

**"Shiver" by Lucy Rose**

* * *

**Carl's POV**

"He woke up!"

I jolt awake, dazed as a female voice shoots through my fuzzy mind. Doubting I heard her right as I try to wade back into reality. But I let out a groan, overcome by my exhaustion as I push myself to sit up. I scratch away at the tiny stones and debris on my cheek, feeling the deep dents that they have marked my skin with.

"Carl. Did you hear me?"

"What?" I grumble, struggling to move my body to face the talker who woke me so rudely. "Tara?" I croak as I see the woman through the darkness, using her silhouette against the light coming through the door behind her, stood tensely at the door opposite me and staring. "How'd you find me?"

"It's Oliver."

She doesn't answer my question, but her response sends a flood of dread through me and suddenly I am so awake that it almost hurts. "What's wrong with him?" I bark, already on my feet and rushing towards her.

"No, nothing," Tara breathes, and a smile breaks over her expression so fast and so wide that it throws me completely off kilter, "he's okay, Carl."

I stare at her, my heart pounding in my chest. "W-what...?" I get out, feeling like I know her answer and buzzing everywhere with anticipation, and something else I can't place. Something so powerful that I'm afraid I'll turn inside out.

"He woke up."

I can't account for what happens next. It's something that resembles widening and crumpling and wincing facial expressions and then, at the same time, stumbling and flying through Grady's hallways and rocketing down flights of stairs, until the next thing I realise is that I am in the waiting room.

I freeze. Like a statue. Staring in a frenzy of relief and worry and astonishment at everyone in here, stood tensely or sat in a waiting chair. Abraham, Rosita, Father Gabriel and Sasha who is holding my sister. They beam at me, and for a moment I am so caught off guard by their expressions that it stuns me.

Noah turns the corner, coming from Oliver's room. He smiles, "He's in there with the others."

I freeze, rigid and overwhelmed.

"Go, Carl."

It is Rosita who snaps me from my stupor, and my body tips towards where she motioned before my legs catch up with it, but I collect myself before I fall, rushing through the doorway leading to the dorm area Oliver's room is inside of.

But my legs are like cement, or jelly. One of the two. Which makes walking considerably difficult when it is conflicted by such opposite sensations. So I practically amble towards Oliver's room. A walk which I have taken on countless occasions before but has never felt this long. But then I see the room. The door is open, but the entrance is blocked by angel wings belonging to Daryl's waist coat. But it's not just him inside Oliver's room.

Almost everyone else is here.

"Good to have you back, son." I hear my dad.

"So glad you're alright, sweetie." Even Maggie is in there.

"W-where's..."

His voice. Oh God, his voice. A little worse for ware, but I don't think I have heard a more beautiful sound since I got here, even that beeping couldn't suffice.

"Where's Carl?"

"Don't worry," Carol tells him. "Tara's gone to find him. He'll be back in a minute."

That's when a noise falls from my mouth. Sort of if you mixed a small groan of a wild baby bear and threw a few mice into the merge. Something I would be mortified of anyone else hearing if I were in another circumstance.

Daryl glances over his shoulder to see me, dropping his arm from the frame of the door with his brow raised in surprise. He glances to Oliver, smiling a little in the only subtle way the Dixon will allow as he reaches over and nudges Carol's arm.

She sees me, too, a wide smile breaking over her pale complexion. "Come on everyone. Let's give 'em some space."

Tara enters the dorm and slowly walks toward me, panting because she has been running after me. Daryl, Carol, Tyreese, Michonne, Maggie, Glenn and Steven all exit the room, patting me on the shoulder or mumbling something I'm too dazed to make out, before leaving to go into the waiting room. Tara lingers, looking awkward and ecstatic, mumbling a quiet, "I'll go check on... something," before going with them.

My dad is still in there, I can hear him talking to Oliver, mumbling comforts to him. But I can't see them as the bed is at the wrong angle. So my legs move on impulse, my heart pounding and my mind buzzing as I push the door open a little more and step into the room, causing Dad's mumbling to silence.

". . . Carl."

"Oliver. . ."

Whispers. His and my voice both. So intense that I fear my heart will implode on itself.

Then it's just a tangle of arms and skin and IV wires and bed sheets, with desperate mutters and muffled _I love you's_ that are so lost into each other's necks and shoulders that neither of us say or hear them properly.

I'm not sure how long Oliver and I cling to each other. Long enough for Dad to simply leave the room and close the door behind him. Long enough for me to climb onto the bed and wrap every limb I own around Oliver's frail body. Long enough for us to stop crying into each other and simply lie there, looking into each other's eyes.

But it's a different kind of looking than I've ever shared with him before. It's the kind that lets you look so deeply into them that you can see... _really see_... the _person_ inside. The kind of looking that takes time to perfect and even when you do there is so much more you can learn from it.

"I didn't get the corn."

That is how Oliver decides to break the quiet panting and hiccuping and looking.

I laugh hysterically. I don't know why. But it just happens so suddenly that I don't have enough time to control it. "It's okay," I reassure him, smiling madly as I lift my hand to his cheek and stroke my thumb across the smooth bone of his jaw, fairly sure that I'm just about slobbering and crying everywhere from my hysteria.

He takes a moment to half laugh at me and the other half to enjoy my tactile gesture before deciding to speak. "Where did you go?" he asks softly.

"I was on the roof," I answer, wiping my snotty nose and teary eyes.

Oliver smiles lovingly, his face illuminated by the glow of the lamp beside him on the bedside table. With all the time I'd spent with him over the past six days with his eyes closed, I guess I'd forgotten how big they are when they're open – when they're awake. Like now. Because they're open, awake, perfectly big, almost too big really, now that I am thinking about it, now that I'm really looking. Perfectly open and awake and big. Perfectly something.

"They said they couldn't find you," he whispers, moving forward to lean his forehead on mine.

"How long have you been awake?" I ask, whispering, too, and feeling worried that he had waited a long time.

"I'm not sure. I can't remember much," he mumbles, his brow knitting into a frown, "I'm not even sure I know where I am... I thought Carol was my mom... Thought I was back home." He lets out a tense laugh. "Called Noah Pat, told him not to hog the hot water."

I stare at him, concern flooding my expression, both not sure if I want to laugh or keep looking worried. "Do you remember comin' to the hospital?"

He swallows, glancing around to try and find his bearings. "I think so."

"What do you remember?"

Oliver's eyes shift between mine in thought, and then his face winces. He's been doped up on medication for six days though, so I don't think it's because he's hurting, well, not much at least, as I think we're all hurting some way or another at the moment. But it's something we're all fairly used to.

"I remember talking to Shepard and Licari in the warehouse. And I remember Lamson slamming the doors open into me - cracking my ribs... and, I... No, I remember The Trade, we were here... Dawn, she... but we got Carol and Beth back... and... I-I can't..." His eyes lock on to mine, reading my worry. "W-why are we still here, Carl?"

His eyes begin to well, and instinctively I push myself up to kiss his forehead, careful not to lean to much on his cracked and wounded body. Then I look at him again, my brow arching in sympathy for what I have to tell him. "Dawn broke the trade. You and Beth got shot... but Beth... she didn't make it... Died instantly."

For a long time Oliver just stares at me, as if he's waiting for me to tell him I got the facts wrong, that it's all just a mistake, that Beth's just outside waiting to smile and wave and say hello to him. But when I don't, and he realises that what I said is true, he tries hard not to react. So hard.

"It's over, Oliver," I whisper as gently as I can.

That's when he can't take it anymore. His expression contorts and tears stream from his eyes as he crumples into me, finally able to mourn his family member. _Another_ family member. I hold him, stroking the back of his head as he sobs into me. But despite crying for God knows how long earlier, tears still materialise in my eyes, soaking into his hair.

"Where's Dawn?" Oliver mumbles through gritted teeth when he trusts himself to speak again.

"No, she's dead," I rush to explain, hating the thought of him thinking that the woman who shot him and murdered his family member is still breathing.

He nods into my chest, staying there for a moment before looking at me. "Where's Beth now?"

"We buried her. Had the funeral the day you got shot. I didn't go. I stayed with you, so did Tara, Carol, Abraham, Rosita and Eugene."

He rests his head on my chest, thumbing at the fabric of my flannel collar for a long time as he lets it all sink in.

"Beth. She was like your deer."

Oliver's statement was so quiet and so soft that for a moment I am convinced it was in my head. But I felt his jaw move and the soft vibration of his voice as it travelled from his throat against my sternum.

"What?" I ask softly.

Oliver sighs. "Beth. Before she went back to Dawn. Before she died... I remember... She held my hand and she was just... looking at me... but, really, _look__ing__,_ at me. Like your deer looked at you... she was so close... she was so, _delicate,_ and _beautiful,_ and..._there_... _really,_ _there..._ and then she was just gone."

"It was over so fast," I whisper to him reassuringly. "There was nothing anyone could do. No one knew it would turn out like that."

Oliver shakes his head, waiting a moment to speak. "No... Beth knew," he says, trying to keep the hiccup from his speech. "Beth knew that the only way to save Noah was to stop Dawn. Maybe it didn't work out as well as she wanted. But... You knew her, and she told me once; she could never kill someone... so... she didn't... she gave up her life to save her friend... to save her family."

I sigh, gently leaning forward to kiss the top of his head, neither agreeing with his theory or disagreeing with it. Because that's all it is, a theory. Whether Beth knew she was going to die or not, she still did die. Another person for us to bury... to cross off of our list... Another family member gone. Dead.

"I thought I was the pessimist in this relationship," Oliver whispers a moment later, reading my thoughts.

I sigh, "I'm just..." I let out another sigh that swells in my chest before I can subdue it, turning into a hiccup. "I'm just tired of burying my family."

Oliver nestles his face into my chest, "Yeah, me too."

We lay in silence, holding each other close. But it doesn't take Oliver long to notice my cast, feeling the solid structure as his own hand subconsciously drifts down to it. His gaze shoots to mine without needing to ask his question.

"It was my fault," I explain. "I panicked and hit the doctor, Steven."

"Why?"

I purse my lips uncomfortably, "I thought he was tryina euthanise you. I-I got scared."

Oliver pulls my hand to his mouth, gently, as to not hurt either of us, and then kisses the ends of my fingers. "Are you alright?"

I nod, smiling softly and still amazed that I am even speaking to him.

"Is _he _alright?"

I nod again, this time smiling less. "I apologised. He said it was alright."

The beginning of a smirk tugs at Oliver's grieving face. "I like the colour."

My smile is back.

"It's so... _purple._"

My eyebrows rise in mock surprise, going with him to lift the mood. "What? R-really? Jeeze, it really is, huh."

We both chuckle at that, after a moment the chuckles turning into sighs, and then the sighs fade into silence. Grieved silence. Then, when it spreads into every crevice of the room, filling it like water, it's Oliver who breaks it.

"I would've thought you'd pick blue or green. You said they were your favourite. Remember?"

I nod, "Yeah... all those months ago in the tombs." I sit up, rubbing my eyes as the nostalgia floods my mind.

"Why'd you pick purple then?" he asks curiously.

"I didn't," I answer as I carefully pull myself off of the bed, sitting beside him and smiling as he watches me. "Steven picked it."

"Oh," Oliver's voice is tired, but he keeps his crooked, under-bitten smile. "Steven's the doctor, right? Met him earlier, gave me some medication." He holds up my cast again. "I thought it was some sort of cheesy Gay Pride statement."

I pull a face, drawing my head back in confusion.

Oliver smirks, "Oh, um. Well, purple was the universal colour for Gay Pride."

"Gay-_what_?"

Oliver scoffs incredulously. "Gay Pride. It was an annual celebration thing, uh, to promote equality and awareness of the LGBT community... You know? For Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Trans people...?"

I had no clue that this was a thing before, half of me kind of suspecting that he is making it all up to mess with me. The look on my face must be pretty entertaining to Oliver because his eyebrows arch in sympathetic amusement and he grins like a fool.

"I forgot how young you were," he says softly, "before all this, I mean."

"You're not even a year older than me," I retort, though I know he is right. I am painfully ignorant to Cultural Normalities from before the Outbreak. "I jus'... Well, a community? I didn't think it would've been such a big deal... I don't see what's so special about any of it, you know? It's just... who you are... who you love."

Oliver's expression softens, almost as if he is admiring how naive I am. "God, I love you," he mutters under his breath so that I almost don't hear him.

I roll my eyes, "No need to patronise me," I grumble, climbing off of the bed and slumping back on the chair.

Oliver's smile grows as he watches me, rolling over a little, "I wasn't."

My eyes meet his again, watching him as he lies there, illuminated by the solar lamp on the bedside table, locking his coffee gaze onto mine and wondering if he is making his oracles glow like that on purpose, his eyes still too big in that perfect way.

A moment passes, seconds, minutes... it doesn't matter. All I know is that I could lose myself in those golden sparkles if he'd let me. I'd collect all of them and keep them in a jar like fireflies. I'd put them on the bedside table and watch them float around and glow against the glass in the dark. I'd watch the golden shine scintillate off of the jar surface like a dance of brilliant light.

"I..." Oliver begins, "I was wondering if I'd be allowed to try and sit up now."

"Y-yeah," I breath, caught off guard by how innocent his voice was. "Yeah, of course. I'll help you."

He's weak. Weaker than I have ever seen him. So he moves slowly and carefully, waiting long moments until moving that little bit more before getting too tired again and waiting some more, and all the while I keep hold of him, helping him move and waiting with a patience that I didn't know I even possessed.

Eventually, Oliver is comfortable. With about five pillows (not feather, due to his asthma) behind his back and head against the head rest, and the blankets up to his chest. I sit back in my chair, watching him as he closes his eyes and catches his breath for a moment, grateful that Steven let us have a few inhalers, too.

I glance to them on the cupboard opposite me under the window. All of Oliver's belonging are on it. His clothes, _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, _and his Glock and knife in their holster, and even his machete, too, as my father gave it back to him the day he got shot. I peer at the tops of sky scrapers that I can see just poking over the window sill into my vision, thinking of when I saw the same structures mere moments before they were obliterated by those bombs.

I remember how Sophia and Carol started crying, and I didn't know what to do because my mom and Shane weren't around. I started crying then, too, and Carol held me with her daughter while Ed stood off to the side, irritate like he always seemed to be.

Oliver suddenly makes a short, grunt. I would have missed it if it weren't silent in here. I turn to him, puzzled and alarmed when I see his eyes wide and his whole body tense.

"What is it?" I ask worriedly.

His head snaps to me, so fast that his hair whips around his face, and suddenly his cheeks turn dark crimson.

"Oliver, what's wrong?"

His mouth tenses and his eyes clamp shut as if he is in pain, cheeks somehow turning darker and brighter at the same time. "Please..." he utters and my heart drops in dread. But with his next words, I realise that the situation is not nearly as bad as I thought, to me at least.

"Please, tell me that's not a catheter...?"

I bite my lip, hard, feeling my own cheeks and neck suddenly flush. "I... uh, I can't tell you that," I tell him as sensitively as I can.

He winces. "Oh... I can feel it."

I have never seen him so strangely mortified. He practically crumples into the bedsheets, as if he is trying to sink away into them from his embarrassment and discomfort.

"Oh my God," he groans to himself under his breath, sort of laughing and choking in his devastation. "Oh no... Oh, God." His voice harbours a kind of incredulousness that I have to try not to laugh at. "There's a fucking catheter in my dick."

I suddenly scoff loudly, "Well, when you put it that way!"

He buries his face into his hands to hide his burning cheeks, unable to bring himself to look at me. Which gives me an opportunity to pull myself together as well as I can, as this topic is one that I am just as reluctant to talk about, though, probably for a different reason than Oliver.

"Look it's not that bad," I try. "It's better than the alternative."

His hands drop to the sheets, the soft expression that I was so blessed to see earlier now glaring and disturbed. He's not having any of it.

"Stevens is a good doctor. He knows what he's doing," I explain reassuringly. "Do you want me to go an' get him...? He can... uh, you know... help you remove it."

Oliver moans. The very idea horrifying him. But he didn't say no, so I take his response as a yes.

"Okay, I'll go find him."

It takes a moment, but eventually Oliver looks at me again, giving a fraction of a nod with pursed lips that turn into a wince. "Thanks," he manages.

_Poor De Luca._

_~ A Few Hours Later ~_

I think it's around ten o'clock in the evening now. I'm stood in the fifth floor hallway outside of the bathroom, waiting for Oliver to sort himself out and picking absent-mindedly at my cast just like I keep getting advised not to.

I had apologised to Steven about damaging the edge of the vegetable garden, and he was annoyed, but I explained that no vegetation was actually damaged in my fall and he eventually dismissed it. My defence was convincing, because I'd played farmer for seven months and so I actually do know about that stuff. He tended to Oliver and was as gracious and as professional as he could have been, removing Oliver's IV bag and giving him his first little bit of solid food he's had since he arrived. But Oliver couldn't bring himself to let the doctor remove the catheter. So instead, Steven explained how Oliver could remove it himself. The De Luca accepted, obviously, figuring that he had no other choice that didn't involve someone other than himself seeing and interacting with those more intimate areas of himself any more than they already had when he was under.

That's what he's doing now.

I lean against the wall, bending my leg and propping my odd shoe up behind me with my arms crossed. Occasionally I hear grunts of dismay or sudden cursing resounding through the thick door beside me.

"You okay in there?" I call to my boyfriend, whom has been in the bathroom for almost half an hour now, and quite frankly, my legs are aching from standing here for the whole time.

"Yep," is all he says, short and extremely uncomfortable.

"You sure?"

"Yep." Again.

I wait a moment.

"Agh, _shit... _Fucking - fuck."

"You don't sound okay..."

"Yeah, well, it'd be easier if I didn't –" He grunts and curses again before continuing with his sentence. "– If I didn't have you talking to me."

"Oh, come on. It can't be that bad," I attempt to console him, realising too late that I am not doing a very good job at all.

"Not that bad?!" Oliver barks incredulously through the closed door. "Well, why don't you go shove a fucking tube up your penis and pull it out! Then come back and tell me _'it's not that bad'._"

I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing. "At least you've got Vaseline though, right...?"

I swear, I can see the steam pour from between the gap at the bottom of the door. "I fucking hate you right now."

I laugh. "No you don't."

I beam at the floor, amazed that less than a few hours ago Oliver was in a coma, and is now back with me, acting as if nothing had happened, insulting me no less. Call me cheesy, but I can't imagine being happier right now, and I am willing to bet on my life that despite his discomfort, Oliver is grinning on the other side of that door, too, thinking the same thing I am, well maybe minus the catheter.

Even with his next insult, I can hear the broad smile on his face.

"_Vaffanculo_, Carl."

I bite my lip. I love it when he speaks Italian. The last time he did was when the walker almost tore my foot off in the suburb. So, despite the fact that Oliver probably just told me to go fuck myself, it still manages to send a shiver down my spine.

"Okay, okay," I surrender in jest, trying not to find amusement from all of this. "I'll shut up. But, are you sure you don't want Steven? I can go get him now for you?"

"No!" he barks. "Don't you dare, Carl! I'm fine. I almost got it. Just... just give me a minute."

It definitely takes longer than a minute. Much longer. But I keep my word and wait patiently for the teenager to finish.

After a while, I hear the toilet flush and then the sink turns on as he washes his hands and cleans up, using the opportunity to brush his teeth with the toothbrush and paste Steven gave him, and then a few minutes later, his frail, weak, but beautifully familiar form emerges from the bathroom.

He's still wearing his pale blue patient robe he had on before. Steven said he wants Oliver to stay over night, and maybe another after that, just to make sure that there are no more complications with his recovery. Maggie has sort of just given up arguing over it now. Which I have told her how much I appreciate.

"Here," I mumble, smiling as I step in front of him and gently pull his beanie over his head, figuring he could at least have that back.

He dips his head, still embarrassed, but grateful all the same. His mouth forms a thank you, but it doesn't come out louder than a breath.

"You alright?" I ask.

He nods, his head still hanging low a little. "Yeah," he mumbles. "Just, a little tired."

"Okay," I purse my lips. He is still recovering. Still weak and aching and bruised and shot. So I gently take under his arm. "Let's get you back."

Eventually, we find our way back to Oliver's room. We'd passed Michonne on our way. She was heading down to meet with everyone else, but she told me to meet everyone too, saying that they were all planning our leave for tomorrow morning and told me to come join when I was done tending to Oliver.

I help set him down in the bed, running my thumb over the back of his head and kissing the top of it. "I'll be back later," I tell him quietly.

He chuckles and blushes, his expression becoming drowsy from the extra medication Steven gave him earlier.

"What's funny?" I smirk, leaning over him to grab a Granola bar, as I missed supper while I was on the roof.

Oliver's eyelids droop in his tiredness, still wearing that goofy, crooked smile of his that compliments his slight under-bite in the only way that I love. He raises his hand, clumsily and tiredly tapping where I'd kissed him on his forehead, and when he answers, his voice is slow and tired and slurred.

"Kissin' the top... top o' my head... Sayin' you'll... be back later," he mumbles, closing his eyes. "You, r-remind me o' Lori."

Then he is asleep, and I am left, staring at him and unable to move or think or understand where that came from.

A series of blinks and swallows later, I finally give in to my burning muscles from hovering stiffly over him, and sit back on my chair. I roll the bar in my hands, having lost my appetite as I am still fixated on Oliver's statement.

But I force it to the back of my mind. Oliver is still pumped with pain killers and antibiotics, and he just came out of a coma. He's not thinking straight. It would have just been the meds talking. So I stand up, leaving the Granola bar on the bedside table. With one last glance at the sleeping De Luca, I leave the room, finally glad that I can't hear the beeping anymore for he no longer is hooked up to the machine.

Yeah.

Things will be okay.

* * *

Judith is crying. Being tired and made to stay awake all at the same time makes for a very grumpy infant. But I can't put her down yet because Dad has to get done with his announcement first, so I just coo to her as best I can while we all collect and gather around the fire truck, listening with everyone else. The only people who aren't here is Noah, Carol and Oliver.

"Richmond, Virginia. Shirewilt Estates," Dad informs. "Noah says that's where he lived before."

"Is it secure?" Glenn asks.

"It _was _secure," Dad says. "It has a wall, homes, twenty people. Beth wanted to go with him, she wanted to get him there. It's a long trip, but if it works out, it's the last long trip we ever have to make."

"And what if it isn't around anymore?" Glenn asks.

"Then we keep goin'," Dad says.

"Then we find a new place," Michonne chimes reassuringly.

"We'll leave first thing in the mornin'," Dad instructs, stood beside the back end of the truck. "Get us as much daylight travelling as we can."

"What about Oliver," Tara interjects. "Is he gonna be alright by then?"

Everyone looks at me, and the sudden responsibility I realise I part-have over the De Luca almost makes me dizzy.

"He's weak," I tell them, rising to the occasion. "He needs rest. But Steven says he's reducing his medication and should be good to leave soon, but we can't expect much out of him. In the end it's up to whether Oliver thinks he is capable out there. But... if you ask me. I'd say waiting a couple more days is better. Three at least. It's safer."

"Right," Daryl nods. "No good lettin' the boy survive a gun shot in here only to have him torn apart out there jus' 'cause he ain't healed 'nough yet."

". . . Thanks," I say to him, trying hard not to picture such a vivid description, but appreciating Daryl's support all the same.

He casually nods back. Dad and the others nodding or pursing their lips in agreement. I look at Maggie, expecting her to insist we leave, and then expecting my father and Glenn to have to convince her otherwise. But she is quiet. She knows what is at stake here, and I don't think she's really willing to risk another life. But she's mourning. It isn't surprising that she wants to leave the place the last living member of her family was murdered. All the same I am grateful for her acceptance.

"Alright," Dad agrees, "I'll ask if Steven an' the others are willin' to let us stay. Three extra days, okay?"

"If we keep puttin' it off like this, we'll never go," Rosita reasons, tensing her jaw, but not in an impatient way, just worried.

"We will," Abraham is quick to reply. "But right now the health of all of us is what's most important." He turns to her. "Like you said a while back, maybe we're always stoppin' 'cause we're never leavin' a-hundred-percent."

Rosita smiles, her full lips widening and her dark brown eyes sparkling in appreciation. I'm not sure I've ever seen her look at him like that, now that I think about it.

Abraham turns back to all of us. "We get Oliver back to his old self. Noah an' Carol, too. And then. In three days. We. Will. Go."

* * *

**Notes**

You get this chapter a few hours early because of all of those beautiful comments you all have left, **Chancey **especially xxx Plus, I'm going to a house party, and I'm fairly sure I'll be too tired to proof-read tomorrow. I'm NOT drinking. Ugh, they'll try to make me, but I won't! I am old enough (18) but I just don't want to! Call me wussy or whatever, but I'm good with having a good time with my friends without alcohol. Haha, that's my moral message for you guys today!

I hope you all liked this chapter. It was nice just finally having the boys back together again.

Tell me what you thought xx

**Preview: With three days left until they get going on the road, the boys spend a quiet day together, there are still a few things that Oliver hasn't quite caught up on yet, and Carl will need to be the one to tell him, but because this will quite literally their first quiet day since back at the Prison. There'll be a few stories of the past, games and jokes. But soon, inevitably, hormones and temptation is going to make its way back into the picture, the question is, will the boys give in to it? (Just reminding, there isn't going to be smut in this story xx )**

As always,

Happy reading xxx :_)_


	49. Undiscovered Province

**The Flash Fanatic **Thank you so much, it really loves you, too, and you make its day! Haha xxx

**DarthGranola **Yeah, I'm excited for you to read it!

**ForgotMyPassword **Ah! Thank you so much! I will! Thank you YOU incredible lil human! :D

**Uriel867 **Haha, I will xxx

**Guest **Ohhhh... It will DEFINITELY be _implied... _Just, no dicks or bodily fluids flying around haha. It'll make sense, hopefully haha

* * *

**Carl's POV**

The Grady Residents have agreed to let us stay until our group members are healed. As long as we use our own supplies, bar medication, and in exchange we help them on runs, collecting more food and supplies for them and ourselves.

Once I came down from Oliver's room this morning, rested better than I have been in a long time, I feed Judith her morning formula, sit around the fire truck with everyone else, figuring I'd let her eat before me since I am planning to eat with Oliver in his room when he wakes up. I thought he wasn't going to wake up this morning, and it took me a while longer than it usually would to rouse him, and I almost called for Steven, but Oliver stirred, and I mumbled in his ear that I would be back later, pretending that I wasn't completely drowning in relief as he cupped the back of my neck and kissed my forehead.

At the moment though, I am still down in the car park with everyone as they eat their breakfast, or early lunch, depending on how they see it. Though it hardly matters since we are all only eating two meals a day at the moment anyway.

When my sister is done, I put her bottle away and grab two cans of something I don't look at and a bottle of water.

"I'm gonna go up," I announce to my father as he leans against the side of the vehicle, chewing on some beef jerky that's probably dangerously out of date.

"Alright," he says, reaching over to me to take Judith.

"No, she's comin' with me," I say, propping her more securely on my hip as I keep hold of the bottle and cans in my free hand under my arm.

It's bright out this morning, warm, Atlanta warm, almost too warm, but this part of the car park is well shaded, and with the fence around it the concern of walkers isn't a large one.

"Here," Dad makes a grunting noise as he pulls himself off of the truck, reaching into the passenger seat to pull out a blanket, "you can have 'er on the floor up there. Jus' get her some cups or somethin'a play with while y'all eat. I'll be up later to bring her more formula for you."

I smile gratefully and nod, flinging the blanket over my shoulder. "Thanks. Later, Dad."

* * *

"Judy, no. Hey, s-stop it," I mumble to my little sister as she insists on taking the bottle from under my arm. But in doing so she's going to make me drop everything that I'm already struggling to carry up five flights of stairs.

But she's too stubborn, and before I can do anything about it, just as I get into the waiting room, I drop everything except the irritating little girl. She laughs at me as I grumble something I probably shouldn't under my breath at her, adding to my dismay by throwing the damn bottle she wanted so much on the floor to join the rest of my things.

"Judith!" I groan grumpily, gritting my teeth and shaking my head as I carry her into Oliver's room. He's still sleeping, so as quietly as I can I place my sister on the floor. "Stay there," I whisper to her, backing away. "_Stay._"

She merely grins at me, chuckling proudly and clapping her hands.

"Shhh!" I grab her hands to quieten her, finding that I am also grinning at her, though I am serious.

I hear Oliver let out a croaky chuckle, witnessing this.

I dip my head and sigh. "I'm sorry," I mumble, arching my brow apologetically as I glance up to him.

"It's okay. I was almost awake anyway." He's led on his right side and looking at me and Judith over his shoulder with one eye open. "Steven came in a little while ago. Gave me some meds... What time is it?" he croaks, pulling his comforter further up to warm himself.

"I'm not sure, sometime in the morning. Or early afternoon... uh, just give me a sec. I dropped our food outside."

Slightly overwhelmed and trying to focus on too much at once, what with Judith trying to crawl away and Oliver awake and the mess I have left outside and my growling stomach, I fumble on the spot for a moment as I crouch, grabbing for my sisters ankle as she attempts to make her escape for the IV pole that Oliver is no longer attached to.

Oliver laughs into his mattress, "Hand her over, I'll keep hold of her until you're done."

I do as he says, quickly lifting Judith and going over to him. I help him sit up, leaning his back against the head rest and then placing Judith on his lap. "Got her?" I ask.

He smirks and nods, "Yeah. Jeeze, I missed her," he says, then motions me to go get my things. It looks like the extra meds are wearing off, because Oliver is more alert and aware of his surroundings than he was last night. Not to mention the long sleep he just had has probably done him _some_ good.

I grin, unable to stop myself from quickly leaning forward and kissing his cheek before doing as he said and rushing out of the door.

I grab the 'meal' and Judith's blanket before heading back into Oliver's room, panting slightly as I roll the bottle and cans onto the end of Oliver's bed, and then lay out Judith's blanket on the largest space of floor under the window to the right of the bed.

When I look back at them both, I expect to see Judith still fidgeting and being the little mischief maker she is, probably trying to grab at Oliver's hair or bandage. But it seems I am still managing to underestimate the bond that the two have with each other. Because Judith is quiet, curled up on Oliver's torso as he wraps his arms around her, mumbling something into her ear that only the two of them can hear.

I smile, watching as Judith thumbs at Oliver's bandage – not pulling or messing with it as such, just calmly and gently looking at what it is. She mumbles back to him, cooing lightly and glancing up at him every few moments with one of the most content expressions on her face that I have ever witnessed in my sister.

She's missed him, too, it seems.

All the rush I was in a moment ago seems to fade away, the serene display in front of me calming my heart and breathing significantly.

Oliver glances up at me and lets a smile touch the corner of his lips, "No corn then?" he says.

"Huh?"

He throws his chin to the cans on the end of his bed, "You didn't get any sweet corn," he elaborates.

My shoulders shrug by themselves. "I looked for some when the others brought it all in," I admit with a coy smile, "but, they didn't find any."

Oliver's bottom lip pouts slightly, mocking my disappointment as well as genuinely feeling sorry for me for it.

"So?" I change the subject before I blush. "What did I bring?"

"Your second favourite," Oliver smirks sarcastically. "String beans."

The mortified look on my expression is a lot worse than I meant it to be. "What?" I drone incredulously. "Are you serious?" I hate string beans, and Oliver is fully aware of this, especially since I apparently had that nightmare about them back in the Office Blocks.

"Don't worry, sap," Oliver chuckles, pointing at the other can, "that one's mushroom soup. You can have that and I'll take the stupid string beans."

"Thanks," I mumble gratefully.

"Here," he says, motioning to Judith, "do you wanna set her down so we can eat?"

"'Kay," I say as I take Judith back, who momentarily protests to parting from the De Luca, but gets over it once I set her on her blanket and hand over a few plastic cups I got from the empty water dispenser in the hallway.

"I gotta use the bathroom first," Oliver tells me.

I help him off the bed, supporting him under his arm to the bathroom down the hallway, where he does his business, brushes his teeth, and whatever else it is he needs, before coming back to his room with me. Rosita comes by, announcing that her and most of the others, bar Dad, Carol, Noah, Maggie, Tyreese and Eugene are going on a run and will be back a little later.

With the can-opener in Oliver's supply bag, I open both cans. "Hold on a sec," I say as I hand them both to him. I go and grab two bowls and two forks from the counter. "We'll share. Hardly seems fair that you have to eat the beans if you don't like 'em either."

I hear him giggle. "I don't mind string beans actually."

I look up at him, shrugging, "You don't like them either," I say truthfully.

He chuckles. "How romantic."

I roll my eyes, though, unable to stop the smirk on my lips. "D'you wanna share or not?" I ask impatiently, feeling my cheeks heat up. "Sarcastic ass."

"Alright, alright, God," Oliver relents in jest. "Hey, where did the supply bag go?"

"Carol's got it," I tell him as I serve the food. "They brought back a few backpacks, so I took one..." I glance at the red rucksack on the dresser behind me. "thought you'd want it. So I went through the other supply bag for your stuff and put it all in there."

"Thanks," Oliver says gratefully. "There was probably a lot of junk in the other one. Haven't really looked through my stuff since I found Carol, Ty and the girls."

I hand him his bowl of half mushroom and half string beans. "Oh, yeah. There were a few things that I didn't know if you wanted to keep." I step off the bed, carrying my meal with me as I grab the rucksack and bring it over. "Most o' your stuff is in the big pocket, the stuff I didn't know what to do with I put in the front pocket."

Oliver takes a large mouthful of his food before placing the bowl a little way in front of him on the bed. He grabs the rucksack and places it in his lap, unzipping the big pocket and rifling through the spare underwear and T-shirts and minor supplies. "Oh, shit, I forgot Ty gave me that torch," he grins, then keeps looking. "Um, this isn't mine..." he says finally, presenting The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn book.

"Yeah, it is," I say. "Carol gave it to you while you were under."

He smiles gratefully, then puts it back, looking through the front pocket next and pulling out a folded piece of paper first.

"I didn't read anything," I tell him truthfully.

Oliver shrugs, "Nothing I wouldn't want you to see anyway," he says, unfolding the crinkled, lined paper. "It's just a list I made, back before Terminus while Ty, Carol, Judy and I were on the tracks."

He hands it over to me, and I read:

_'- Formula (LOTS)  
\- Antibiotics  
\- Band-aids  
\- Duck-tape  
\- Diapers (LOTS)  
\- Bottled water  
\- Food  
\- Canned food  
\- Jarred food  
\- Packeted food  
\- Any fucking food!'_

I grin sympathetically, understanding how hungry they must have been back then. A hunger that almost the rest of the world shared.

_'- Especially M&amp;M's (not stale)'_

He'd scribbled that one out.

_'- Socks  
\- Ammo'_

Around this part of the note, the pen he had been using was running dry and there are scribbles scattered all over the paper from his furious attempts to get it to work again.

I'm smirking without meaning to, imagining him attacking the paper out of his irritation. But when I look up at Oliver, he's not nearly as cheery as he was a moment ago. In fact, he looks devastated. I watch in alarm as the sorrow rises in his expression, until he looks up to me, a single tear suddenly rolling down his pale cheek.

"Oliver?" my voice cracks.

He snaps out of his sadness, quickly wiping his tears and sniffing. "Sorry."

"What is it?" I ask.

His eyebrows knit together, fighting his emotion. "It's... It's theirs."

I notice the two small objects in Oliver's hands, one red thread bracelet and a dirty pink watch.

"This was Lizzie's," he says, thumbing at the watch. "This was Mika's." The bracelet.

"I didn't put them in there." I purse my lips, remembering the day of his seizure when I heard Carol give him something, but I didn't see what it was. "I think Carol did."

"Yeah. I-I'll ask her." He closes his fist around the children's jewellery, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, a soft, sad smile on his lips.

Over this amount of time, most people would assume that since Lizzie and Mika, and his brother, and everyone he knew, that time would've healed Oliver's wounds, that he wouldn't need to mourn them anymore. But, it just doesn't work like that. It's impossible to just get over the pain and miraculously be cured of it. It's merely getting enough time to adjust to the pain.

"_The pain doesn't go away. You just make room for it._"

I think I remember Andrea saying that once, to Beth, the day she tried to cut her wrist. I went into the house to use the bathroom before it all happened, overheard them talking.

After a moment, Oliver puts the note back, and is about to put the girl's watch and bracelet away, too.

"Hey, wait," I say gently. "You should wear them."

Oliver thumbs at them, staring down at them and frowning. "Thanks. But I'm not sure wearing a pink, kid's watch is really my style."

I scoff quietly and roll my eyes, knowing that that isn't really why he's reluctant. "You worried about what they'd do if they saw you had them?" I ask.

Oliver nods, "Yeah. I mean, it'd only upset Ty. Carol, too, even though she'd probably not say anything."

"Then put them in your pocket," I reason. "Especially the watch. You're obsessed with time, and it still works, see? Mika 'n' Lizzie'd be glad that you're still usin' their stuff."

He sighs, nodding as he looks down at Lizzie's watch, and I read that it's half past eleven in the morning.

"Dale Horvarth," I say after a moment.

Oliver glances up at me curiously.

"He told us a story once, or, quoted some writer or somethin', back in our Quarry camp." I take a moment, trying my best to remember it, surprised that I even do after so long. But it's still there, deep down, hidden away. "Somethin' about, what a father said to his son, when he gave him a watch that'd been passed down through their family. He said to his son, _"I give you the..."_ uh, um, _"the mausoleum,"_ or somethin', _"of all hope, which,"_ uh, _"which won't help you any more than it did me or my father before me. But, I give it to you, not to forget..."_ –no, sorry, I mean– _"I give it to you not to remember time,"_ um, _"but to be able to forget about it, just for a moment, every now and then... so that you don't spend all of your breath trying to conquer it."_ Yeah, I think that was the story."

Oliver is smiling, a sparkle in his eye that I find difficult to look away from him. "So, you remember all of that from a million years ago," he says, "but you forgot to bring better food than string beans?"

I laugh. "Hey, at least I didn't forget the corn," I tease in jest, chuckling as I look down at my lap, twiddling my thumbs.

"I am actually really mad at myself for that," Oliver admits.

I smile and exchange a glance with him as he places the girl's jewellery on his bedside table (as he has no pockets in his patient gown), sharing a sort of comfortable, serene understanding together. So we go back to our meal, which turns out to be just as gross as the string beans would've been on their own. Truly, corn would be amazing. But Oliver and I eat our fill without complaining, knowing that we are lucky to be getting any food at all.

By the end of the meal, after mindless talking about nothing important, Oliver and I had left our bowls and other belongings at the end of the bed. My shoes and socks have found their way scattered across the floor and my flannel shirt is now crumpled in a heap with Judith, who is led on her stomach on her blanket, practically mauling the dark blue fabric in her hands.

Oliver has his back against the headboard of the hospital bed, me. . . in his lap, my knees around his hips. We'd made a concerted effort not to say anything about it as I climbed on top of him, and our current position isn't for any real purpose other than to be that extra bit closer to one another, though, we'd have to be idiots to try to convince ourselves that more R-rated thoughts hadn't slipped into our minds at least once or twice (or twenty times) as we sit like this. But I've been specifically avoiding any thoughts of whatever else that could possibly be going on in his lap. Because Oliver's lap is like an undiscovered province. Uncharted... Unnerving... I can't think about Oliver's lap too much. If I do, then I'll just end up climbing off the bed and sitting over on the chair again. But I like being this close to him, I always have. I like knowing that there is still a few layers of fabric between us, and I like knowing that there also doesn't have to be if we chose otherwise. I like knowing that he can ask me to move if he wants me to, or that I can move away if I want to, too.

But, I haven't wanted to so far...

Neither has Oliver.

"Oh, man," Oliver suddenly blurts, interrupting me as I was telling him about a comic series Invincible I used to read. I was talking about my favourite character Science Dog and how I used to have a shirt with his symbol of a paw and atoms flying around it on the front. The same shirt that I took from home before Shane made Mom and I leave. I only threw it away a few months before the First Prison Attack when it got too small for me.

"What's up?" I ask, grinning at his sudden outburst.

"Sorry," he apologises, but I shake my head because I was done talking anyway. So he continues. "Uh, it's just that I found this a little while ago while you all were downstairs." He carefully reaches over to his bedside table and pulls out a small, blue book. "You're gonna love it."

"What is it?" I ask, shuffling slightly on my knees to let him move.

"It's a pun book," he says simply, sitting back and skimming through the pages.

I smirk.

Oliver glances up at me, his eyebrows slowly climbing to his hair line. I watch them, because somehow Oliver's eyebrows are almost pornographic. But I start thinking about his lap too much, so I play off my moment of staring with a slightly distracted chuckle, twisting myself to dismount him, though, refusing to move so far as the chair and instead lying on my back opposite him along the bed, leaning onto my elbows with my legs crossed in front of me.

"Better be good," I say, doing well to be nonchalant. Still thinking of his lap. . .

"It is. Okay, I got one." Oliver finds something, raising those eyebrows and shifting his weight as he pulls his legs up to cross them as well. "_I wondered why the baseball was getting bigger... Then it hit me._"

"Oh," I chuckle, shaking my head and wincing slightly. "Ouch."

Oliver snickers, flipping through more pages. "Um, okay. Got another one: _What's the worst thing about throwing a party in space?_"

"What?" I question like he was waiting for me to.

"_You have to planet,_" he grins.

But I struggle to understand the joke at first, staring at him in confusion and grinning as I furrow my brow.

"You know, man, like, plan it."

"Oh! Plan it – planet," I grin widely, laughing now. "Ah, I like that one."

"Yeah, me, too." More flipping. More grinning. More eyebrow fantasising that I stop the moment I realise. "_I used to be a banker... But I lost interest._"

I furrow my brow a little, still laughing purely because of how much fun I am having, "I don't get it."

Oliver reads it over again, then shrugs. "Yeah, me neither. Oh, okay, this one's funny. _When Will joined the army, it took him a while to get used to the phrase 'fire at will'._"

We both laugh at that. "That's ridiculous," I giggle as I pull off my hat, leaving it beside me before rubbing my forehead. "C'mon, another one."

"Uhm," Oliver skims over the page, choosing one on the other side at random. "_The cannibal showed up late for a lunch get-together one day... he was..._ oh..."

"What? He was what?"

Oliver grimaces. "_He was given a cold shoulder._"

Neither of us laugh at that.

Instead Oliver looks at me, making a noise of discomfort without meaning to. "Um, that one's kinda disturbing, huh?"

I nod in agreement, trying not to think of Bob or Terminus and finding the idea of cannibalism very unamusing. "People found that funny before?"

Oliver shrugs, "I guess."

"Gross."

Oliver shakes his head to clear it, thinking of Bob and Terminus as well I suppose. "Okay, a few more and then I think that's enough puns for one morning."

I nod, sitting up and leaning forward now.

He smirks as he searches, "Um... Oh. Okay, I got one: _What does a house wear?_"

I just grin at him.

"_A dress._"

Another wave of laughter, "Right! 'Cause, address, and literally, a dress... Jeeze, that's awful."

"Oh, man. I love this thing," Oliver laughs.

"Okay, one more."

Oliver starts his search, a moment passing before he finds one, and suddenly, he bursts out laughing just at reading it. "Oh my god," he winces when his ribs protest to all the laughing, settling himself, "this one's my new favourite."

"Read it," I insist, wanting in on it, too.

Oliver hums a laugh to settle himself, finally controlled enough to continue. "_A young couple went off to have a romantic evening together... neither knew what was to come._"

For a good few minutes after that, Oliver's room is full of laughter, so much of it that it takes the pain in the De Luca's cracked ribs again to finally quieten us.

When his aching subsides, he smiles at me, the coffee and gold in his too big, too perfect eyes bouncing out at me again. Perfectly something. . . Perfectly Oliver.

"Wanna play a game?"

I cock an eyebrow, "I'm not sure how much more entertainment I can take."

"It'll be fun."

"What is it?"

"Well, I used to play it with a friend I met before Pat and I got separated," Oliver explains. "I don't know if the game's got a name, it was just something we came up with. Works by one person beginning a sentence, any sentence, and the other person has to finish it with their truth. So, you would say, "_Your favourite food..._" and I would finish with, "_pudding._" Make sense?"

I chuckle and nod, "I think so. You start though."

"Okay, uhm, the last walker you put down..."

I think for a moment, "Gabriel's Church. Knifed one through the back of the head right before we boarded-"

"Wait, the Church was overrun?"

"Yeah," I answer, "but, Abraham 'n' the others came along right after, so, we were fine."

Oliver nods again, looking a little startled, and for a moment I feel like there is something I am supposed to tell him, but he smiles and gestures to me before I think of it. "Your turn, man."

"Umm... Your favourite book..."

"Butterfly Lion."

I smile at that, letting out a breathy chuckle and subconsciously biting my lip, releasing it when I notice. "Um, y-your turn."

"Okay, I got one... The most awkward place you've had to go to the bathroom..."

I grimace, "I can't say that."

"Oh, come on, spoil sport."

"No," I grumble. "It's embarrassing."

"You can pick a hard one for me," Oliver offers.

I narrow my eyes, "Fine... No taksies-backsies though."

"_Takesies-backsies_?" he repeats as if I'd said that Daryl had replaced his crossbow with a kitten.

"You know what I mean," I roll my eyes.

"Fine, jeeze. No taksies-backsies. Happy?"

I nod and grin.

"Come on then."

I can feel my cheeks blushing already. "On the way to the CDC. No one would stop and, I, uh, well, you know, I needed to go. Mom was mad that I didn't go before, but I didn't needa go back then. But anyways, yeah, they all wouldn't stop, and then, uhm, I see this empty bottle, uh, over in the back of the truck. So, I climb over, Carol 'n' Sophia were asleep. Mom was, too, in the front with Dad drivin'. He sees me climbing but, I don't know, I guess he thought I was getting something from the supplies or somethin'..."

Oliver is already laughing, doing his best to suppress it, his shoulders shaking against his will.

"Anyways, so, yeah. I peed in the bottle... Woulda gotten away with it, too, 'cause I was gonna throw it out the window... But Sophia saw me... She screamed... so loudly and so _freakin__g_ suddenly that I, uh... well... I missed."

Oliver is really laughing, wincing from his ribs but unable to stop himself.

"I got so yelled at. And it was so embarrassing. An' the pee... God, it was everywhere, and I had to clean it up when we stopped... That van never did smell the same after that."

"Gross," he giggles.

"I told you." I wait a moment for him to finally settle enough, marvelling at that familiar, broad grin on his face. "Now it's my turn."

For a moment Oliver actually looks worried, and he should be, because I knew what my question would be the moment he said I could choose one just as hard.

"The last place... um, the last place you..." I hadn't really thought about how much the term suddenly wouldn't want to come out of me now that I'm supposed to say it.

"What?"

"You know..."

"Uh..." He shakes his head in confusion. "No."

For some _stupid_ reason, motioning briefly with my hand near my lap (the sort of action shaking a salt shaker takes, or... well, another thing) is the only rational action I can think of to get the message across. But I realise too late that just saying _Jerked off_ would've sufficed a lot better. Given Oliver's reaction...

"Carl!"

"What?" I make sure I don't cringe, giggling nervously and unable to help the redness in my cheeks. "You said to pick a hard one."

Oliver bursts out laughing again, palming his face in both hands. "Not the kind of hard I meant, man."

"Sorry, you don't have to answer," I'm wincing now. _IdiotIdiotIdiot_. Saying it over and over in my head. "I can pick another one."

"No, no. I'll answer," Oliver chuckles. "But be warned, you'll either feel really sorry for me or you'll be really impressed... or maybe, just, uh, a sad mixture of the two."

"Been that long, huh?" I try to subdue my grin by resting my chin on my hand.

He smirks, then kind of arches his brow and nods. "I think it was back, uhm, on the tracks before Terminus. Everyone was asleep, and it was pretty early, so I, you know, went to the bathroom, and, you know, did my thing."

"You know I'm not talking about peeing, right?"

"_Yes..._" Oliver shoves my shoulder. "I meant my _other thing_."

I grin madly, subconsciously picturing him doing his _other __thing_ for a millisecond, but then pushing it out of my mind when a warm tingle runs through my spine, the first warning that I know I shouldn't ignore. "You're right. I do feel sympathetically impressed by that."

He chuckles, rubbing his red cheeks. "The last time you told someone to go fuck them self..." he insults and continues the game at the same time.

I laugh, "Potty mouth." But I think for a moment, and my expression softens when I remember. ". . . Dad."

"No way?!"

I nod, not nearly finding that as impressive as he is.

Oliver realises this and stops joking. "What happened?"

"It was the morning after those Claimers found us, day we got to Terminus - found you. Uh, Joe, the leader guy, he said you got away – said you were a dead man. But I had to see for myself, so, I was looking through the weapons. An', I found your machete."

Oliver swallows uncomfortably.

"Didn't make any difference though, you were still... _gone_. Dad tried to tell me that. Said that I had to accept it. So I got mad – shouted at him."

Oliver doesn't say anything after that, instead he reaches forward and takes my hand, bringing it to his lips and inhaling for a long moment of thought that I don't need to try to figure out.

"Your friend after the Outbreak, who was she?" I ask curiously. "Or, you know, he."

Oliver's eyes mull over for a moment, some kind of dense thought resurfacing itself for his answer. "His name was Taylor."

I nod, tilting my head curiously, "How come you've never mentioned him before?"

Oliver squints slightly, pursing his lips. "It's my turn to ask the question."

I smirk a little, realising he's avoiding the topic, "I-I didn't know we were still playing."

Oliver smiles a little, a sad smile, a smile that tells me he already knew that. "Well, there are a lot of people I haven't mentioned. From after the Outbreak – before I got to the Prison."

I hold his eye contact, letting a reassuring smile touch my lips. "You don't have to tell me. But, I mean, I'm a good listener, so... you can, if you want to."

He gives me a look like he already knows this. Because he does. "It was bad... what happened."

I purse my lips, giving a slight nod as Oliver constructs his story.

"We were all in an apartment store, me, Pat, Taylor and his older brother Zane, and an old lady called Debbie. It was okay, for a while. Taylor and I were close. Every morning we'd go up on the roof together. I'd sit and draw or something while he performed Puja."

"Puja?"

"Yeah, uh, he was a Hindu. Puja's like a morning ritual thing. I didn't know much about it. He'd tell me, but, it all sorta just flew over my head, I guess."

I smile, holding his eye contact. "So... you were close? Did you two... ever...?" It's kind of difficult to ask this without sounding petty or slightly jealous, so I stop, rolling my eyes when Oliver smirks at me, enjoying my awkwardness more than I'm particularly comfortable with.

"I'm not sure," he answers.

My eyes dart back to his again. "Oh?" I ask curiously.

"The day... The day it all happened. He kissed me, and... and, I guess I kinda kissed him, too..." Oliver's eyebrows are knitted into a frown, like he's not sure if it's a good memory or not. "He said that he just wanted to try it... to feel what it was like."

"What happened?"

"What always happens," Oliver answers, something in his voice sad and hurting even after all of this time. "Debbie, the old lady. She died the day before – heart attack, and Taylor didn't know that you come back even if you're not bitten. Pat, Zane and I were in the drugs store next door. We heard the screaming. When we got there Taylor'd put her down. But he was bit - Hid it from us, and, it wasn't until I... I could actually feel him, that I noticed his fever."

My breath hitches, my eyes darting between his, not sure if I should say anything or if Oliver even wants me to.

"He died a while after," Oliver goes on quietly. "In Zane's arms. Pat told me to wait downstairs... So, I did. And I could hear them up there. Zane didn't wanna do it – put Taylor down... I heard the growl, but... he did it, in the end... Put his brother down... Then he threw himself off the roof."

I wince, understanding now why Oliver never told me about that. "At least... At least you didn't have to see it," I say gently, "you know?"

But Oliver shakes his head, scrunching up his nose in some bitter, painful acceptance. "No... I saw it. I saw Zane fall. Broke his neck, landed, got eaten... died... I didn't speak for a few days after it. But, I still had Pat. So, it wasn't unbearable."

I wince sympathetically, wishing that I could have been there for him, too, "Patrick was good, huh?"

Oliver smiles, taking a deep breath. "Yeah... Yeah he was."

I smile, running my fingers over the back of his hand.

"Um, there was another camp, two weeks later in a national park. Mammoth Cave, or something."

"In Kentucky?" I ask, remembering getting taught about the park in school.

Oliver nods.

"What were you doin' all the way in another time zone?"

"We were on our way to Bowling Green. There was supposed to be a refugee centre there."

"What happened?"

"Bowling Green was overrun," Oliver answers solemnly. "Jason, the Mammoth Cave camp leader, found us walking, told us about Bowling Green before we got there. Brought us back to the park. Pat and I stayed there for four days, I think... There was, um, Isla, Jason's daughter. She was cool... There were the twins, Harry, and, uh, Lilly I think."

"Did the camp get overrun, too?"

Oliver shakes his head, then shrugs. "Not that I know of... Pat just told me to pack... then we left. Ran again."

"And you have no idea why?"

"I know that whatever it was, Pat knew, and I knew it was bad because we didn't say goodbye either. We just took Jason's car and left."

"Well, whatever it was, I'm sure that Patrick was just looking out for you," I say. "Keeping you safe."

Oliver smiles a little and nods.

"Pass me your bowl?" I ask a moment later.

He lets go of my hand and hands it over, and I take mine as well, going over to leave them by the supply bag to wash later before collecting the empty cans.

"Back in a sec," I smile at him.

"'Kay," he mumbles as he lies down on his back again, nodding tiredly.

"Sleepy?"

He nods again, mumbling, "Think it's the meds."

"Steven said they'd ware off soon. He's giving you weaker stuff now."

Oliver nods again, trying to stay awake.

"No, it's okay," I whisper, stroking my fingers through his fringe, then trailing my hand down to his hand, grazing my fingers over his palm, and just like it did when he was in his coma, he twitches at my touch, only this time he tangles his fingers into mine, too, and it's so satisfying that I can't help myself from bending down and kissing the back of his extremity. His skin is warm now, and harbours that beautiful pulse inside of it. "Go back to sleep."

His breathing slows, and his head rolls to the side, his expression relaxed, eyes closed, and his hair hanging at odd angles over his face, caught in his eyelashes.

I smile, then finally turn to Judith, narrowing my eyes and smirking down at her as she occupies herself with my odd boot, having taken it when I wasn't looking.

"And, _you_," I address her in jest, whispering. "Stay. There."

So with that I leave the patient's room and go to dispose of the trash in the waiting room. I poke my head out into the hallway, wondering if I will see any of my group as no one is in the waiting room. But all I see is a former officer that I have seen a few times before, Shepard, I think is her last name, and she strolls past me, offering me a small smile and a, "hello" before leaving around the corner. I guess the others (who aren't on the run) are around somewhere, or down by the truck.

I go back into Oliver's room, "Goo-" I was about to praise Judith for staying where she was, but I remember that Oliver is asleep so I fall silent.

Judith quietly mumbles at me, demanding my attention, so I smile as I gently stroke her hair over her forehead. She's pretty tired, too, as I guess it's nearing the time she'd usually nap (whether it be in a cot or on someone's back in her travel sack), and so I quietly set up a temporary bed for my sister, using my flannel and some of Oliver's clothes as cushions. I lay her on her back, placing the longer end of her blanket over her so that she is wrapped in the array of fabric. She settles into it easily, falling asleep when I run my thumb down her face a few times just the way she likes.

Finally, I stand up and tip toe over to Oliver, the cold floor biting at the balls of my feet until I retreat onto the chair. I watch him for a moment, soothed by his calm breathing and his relaxed expression. His hair is ruffled and in dire need of a cut like mine, and the ends of his fringe still lays against his eyelashes in a way that looks uncomfortable, but he doesn't seem to even mind.

Regardless, I lean forward, reaching out with my cast-hand to gently and carefully brush the soft, wavy, brown follicles from his eyes. But he draws in a breath and I freeze, biting my lip and scolding myself for waking him. I am about to apologise and whisper for him to go back to sleep, but before I do, Oliver reaches out with his arm and I slip my other hand into it.

He pulls.

Without a word guiding me to move closer to him.

At first, I think he only means for me to lean close enough to rest my arm on him... but he keeps pulling, and rolls over so that his back is to me, and once I realise what he wants I go with his wishes, quietly climbing onto the hospital bed with him.

He shuffles over to make room for me, still facing away as I rest on the sheet and drape my arm over him. Burying my face into his neck as he leans back into me, and I curl up against him, spooning him and breathing in his familiar scent.

It is a few minutes before Oliver breaks the peaceful quiet, the only noise being the faint snoring of my sister.

"After everything went down with Taylor and Zane and Debbie," he starts, he voice low and raspy from tiredness. "When Pat and I were crossing back over the time zone about two days later. We got to a town. Pat, he stopped the car, checked the clock on the dash board, got out, and walked over to a sign that said something about time zones... He started jumping, right there in the middle of the road, from one side of the sign to the other, yelling, at the top of his voice, _"Look, Oliver, I'm a time traveller,"_." I can hear his smile in his voice. "He told me to come do it, too, said it was as close to the real thing as we were ever gonna get."

"Did you?" I ask him, realising I'm smiling now, too.

"Yeah. Didn't want to, at first. I still wasn't talking much, but he got me to smile. Got me to laugh again." There is a pause, and in it, both Oliver and I feel a strange sense of peace. "Pat _was_ good."

I let out a breath, kissing his nape.

"When are we leaving?" he yawns, rubbing his eyes with the back of his thumbs.

"Day after tomorrow," I answer, slightly mumbling against his nape in reluctance to remove my lips from it.

"I'm glad they've been willing to wait for me and Carol and Noah to heal. It's crazy that Abraham's group have even held out for this long. I was kind of expecting them to leave for D.C. again."

My heart suddenly drops.

Oliver doesn't know about the lie. It hasn't come up yet. He still thinks we are going to D.C. to save the world. I stutter for a moment, finally realising that I will have to break it to him. To crush the last hope he had for true sanctuary. I can feel Oliver tense up against me, noticing my reaction as his hand suddenly closes a little more around my cast.

"What is it?" he asks worriedly in a whisper.

"Oliver..."

He rolls back slightly to look at me, cupping my cheek to encourage me to talk. But just as I open my mouth, Oliver speaks before I get the chance.

"There is no cure, is there?"

I blink at him, amazed by his brilliant intuitiveness. This being a perfect example of how it can be a curse to him. "No," I say finally. "Eugene lied. We're gonna head to Richmond in Virginia to see if Noah's home is still there. He said it's an estate - that there's a wall and people..."

A moment passes. But he doesn't say anything. Until finally he just lets out a sigh, his head rolling away from me as he buries it into the pillow. But I can sense his dismal mood... Like I expected, realising about D.C. hasn't taken well to him. But he isn't making it obvious. So to comfort him and be of some kind of consolation, I stroke the back of his hand and press my lips to his nape.

"I'm sorry I took this long to tell you."

He doesn't respond for a long time, simply stares out of the window as the sun continues to set over Atlanta City.

"It's done now," he whispers finally. "And, I was in a coma... I'm bound to have missed a few things."

I laugh, gently hugging him and wondering if it is normal to want to kiss someone's neck so much. "I love you," I mumble the first thing that comes into my mind.

"Love you," he whispers back, his voice drowsy and croaky.

"No, I mean, I love you more than I'm sure is healthy," I say, peering over his shoulder to see his cheeks expand as he grins, letting out a flattered chuckle.

He glances at me, his brown oracles sparkling with that brilliant scattered gold in them. "You, Grimes, are _such_ a sap," the De Luca teases.

I go to thump him in the side just above his left hip through his comforter, but it just sort of turns unto a stroke of my fingers there. "Shut up, goof," I scoff, feeling my cheeks heat up in embarrassment for sharing that, as, usually, I keep those sort of mushy statements to myself.

He smiles, gently stroking my cheek and holding my eye contact for a long time before talking again. "I love you unhealthily, too."

I grin at him, and then our lips are together again. Our first kiss since that last night in the Church. For a moment I feel like I am flying, and both of us keep grinning like idiots as we lip-lock. But something changes, both of us suddenly and brutally reminded of how so much we had missed this. Missed each other. So we stop grinning, and our kiss becomes more passionate, deeper, needier. How, again, had I forgotten the extent of how incredible his lips are against mine? How spectacular it is to have his hair between my fingers?

My right hand weaves with his left, holding our entwined extremities beside his head, sort of unintentionally pinning his hand to the pillow. Though it's Oliver doing most of the holding, as the ends of my fingers are doing their best to latch onto his extremity over my damn cast.

My heart is suddenly racing, a kind of heat growing in the deepest depths of my chest. Building there like a fire. The way he kisses with his jaw and bottom lip is nothing short of inspiring, and I'm burrowing closer to him like a dog looking for a lost child, which, now I think about it, doesn't sound nearly as nice as it actually feels.

Oliver reaches up with his free hand and pulls me to get closer, and then pulls away, grabbing the edge of his blanket and lifting it, and I take a moment to climb under the covers with him, propping myself on my elbows to rest between his legs, kissing him again, suddenly very much thinking about his lap, and fast realising that he must've been thinking the same thing for a while too because his legs come up, around me. I've pushed myself down a little, kissing his collarbones and neck. Should I love his neck so much? This much? I want to. I want to so bad I'm almost wincing. _What _exactly I want, is still a little of a grey area for me, but I know that I do want to. I want to get as close to him as I possibly can and stay there. But I'm also aware of his injuries, and so I make sure I'm being gentle and careful. Under his skin, I feel the beating of his pulse, thumping away, faster and faster, vibrating right through me. All my senses heighten, everything becoming intense and sharp, somehow creating a kind of shared rapture between us, all thick and tangled and impossible to get out of even if we wanted to, like the perfect prison we're happy to live in. My heart beat physically skips over itself, goosebumps rippling over my whole body as his hands venture to my spine, the warm ends of his fingers scrunching up the hem of my T-shirt, and I shiver when his fingernails graze against the small of my back. I'm thinking of that heat. It's intoxicating. Still building deep in my chest, the same heat that has been building between the both of us all evening, growing outward, slowly and then suddenly.

Then blood rushes South.

I gasp, panicking and embarrassed, and I pull back, only to let out an accidental hum when I become aware of what is digging into my side. "Erm. Oliver?"

"I'm sorry," he apologised breathlessly, his cheeks shining crimson even in the gloom from his embarrassment, and he laughs, palming his face. "Oh, man. I didn't mean to get so worked up."

"It's okay," I breathe deeply, realising that he hasn't noticed he isn't on his own, given that for one, patient robes are a lot thinner than jeans and holsters, and two, that area of me isn't actually close enough. But I think he's putting it together, because we lock eyes for a moment, breathing fast, flickers of smiles bouncing across our expressions.

"Wait..."

"..."

"Is that?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Uh. Yeah..."

He's staring. . . "Carl?"

I swallow and furrow my brow, panting so madly his fringe puffs away from him, and Oliver smiles, doing that thing when he gets nervous and biting his lower lip a little. My mind to spins, wondering to how much I want to kiss him, touch him, feel him... be as close to him as I possibly can, wondering if all of that is even normal, wondering if I'm just mad. . .

"Do you want to?"

I shift my eyes between his, my cheeks scolding, and I nod. Nod and nod and nod, swallowing again and very aware of what is going on in both of our laps now. "Yeah. I do."

He smiles.

"Do you?"

". . . Yes."

I fumble slightly, panting and staring at every part of his face that I can see.

"Um," Oliver whispers his chuckle, "I-I, uh... I think we should take off our clothes." I push myself to sit up on my knees. Oliver sits up, too, leaning back on the head rest. "Um... you, uh. You go first. I've only got, uh, you know, my underwear on under this, so..."

"Oh, yeah," I say like I'm not totally freaking out inside. "Yeah, right."

"Right," he repeats.

I pull off my T-shirt and drop it over the side of the bed. Cool air prickles my exposed torso and I self-consciously cross my arms, then drop them, attempting to neaten my hair, glancing at him, chewing the skin on my lip because Oliver is staring like he's never seen a boy before in his life. "Uh. You okay?"

He swallows, pulling his gaze up again. "You're, uh... n-nice."

I snort.

"Sorry," Oliver cringes.

"It's okay," I laugh, awkwardly dropping my arms again when I realise I'd lifted them, grinning like an idiot. "Um, your turn."

Oliver starts undoing the first button, but then I'm leaning forward and helping him, not even realising I'd moved at first. I have a little difficulty moving my fingers from my cast, which makes him laugh, but when it's undone I tug the robe over his shoulders, carefully slipping it away from him so that I don't hurt him.

I know I've seen just about every inch of Oliver already, what with bathing him and dressing him while he was in his coma. But still, I've never seen him like this. Never when he's been awake, conscious, and when we've been alone together, kissing, hearts racing and minds spinning and wanting _more more more. . ._

To put it short, it takes me a moment to stop gawking at him, and even then, I'm still staring.

"I..."

"You okay?" he asks this time, and he's grinning.

I nod, glancing at him without actually shifting my eyes away. It's just, over a year and a half since the Outbreak time has physically toned and strengthened Oliver nicely, ridding him of any baby fat that would most likely still be there a little if none of it had happened. I mean, obviously, Oliver's no body builder with sharp defined biceps or six packs or whatever. No, instead, his body is soft and smooth and carefully toned. He looks strong, but not in a way that's particularly noticeable through his clothes or the way he moves. Then, further down under his boxers. That undiscovered province. Still uncharted. Still unnerving. And now. . .

I pull my eyes up. "Oliver?"

"Yeah."

"Can I touch you?"

His eyes widen, and his chest expands, stopping only at his ribs protest. "Okay. . ."

So I do, placing both palms against his chest, gently, carefully, like looking into a comic book store window. Oliver tries to kiss me, but I pull back because right now looking away isn't an option to me. Instead I place my attention in my palms and the ends of my fingers, feeling my callused skin slide against his smooth, letting them mould into the dents and shapes of his chest. I think of Oliver inside of that. His flesh and muscle and bone and cartilage. I feel his pulse. Oliver De Luca. Right in here. Beating away. So close that I have half a hormonal mind to try to reach inside and snatch his heart away from him.

He chuckles. The quiet kind that that sounds more like silent clapping or something, the short _Ah_'s bringing my focus back, and when I look at him he looks like he can't quite believe he's watching this, watching me like this. I pull my hands back, frowning, self-conscious about how ridiculous I must look, feeling lanky and scrawny and childish.

"Stop laughing at me."

"Oh, come here," he whispers softly, reaching and pulling and I'm falling into him, falling in love with him, falling all over the place. "I wanna touch you, too."

I barely manage to nod before I realise I'm kissing him, pulling his knees to hug me, buzzing all over at the completely unique sensation of his bear chest against mine. Heartbeat on heartbeat. His hand grazes down my neck and over my chest towards my jeans, slipping his fingers into the hem of them, and with a gentle flick of his wrist the button his undone. My breath hitches into his mouth, thinking, _skinskinskin!_ as I hear my zipper being pulled down, breaking our kiss to look.

Oliver stops, looks at me, and I ask, "Are you gonna use your hand?" and I swear to God I don't know why. Because why the hell would I ask that? What else would he use?!

"Yeah," Oliver answers, almost whines it he's breathing so fast, ". . . at first."

My gut flips and twists, tugging on my trachea. I gulp the butterflies away. "At first?"

Oliver smiles, nods. "It's not all just hands, man."

My breath becomes short, and my expression shifts and changes, wanting to laugh or smile but too distracted, feeling like an idiot but too curious not to ask. "Wait, you'd actually use your mou–?"

I don't get to finish my question. Judith. She starts to mumble from her nest on the floor, suddenly reminding us that we aren't alone in here. Oliver startles, cursing, suddenly looking mortified. "How the heck did I forgot she was still in here?"

For a moment, suddenly throwing Judith out of the window almost becomes appealing to me. But, _Jesus Christ, no!_ so I let out a long sigh, closing my eyes with a strange disappointment that I make an effort to bury inside of me.

"Oh my gosh," Oliver mutters, and his legs fall, and every hormone I own is crying. "That sucks. Oh, no, wait, I guess it doesn't really at all, huh?"

I frown at him, rolling my eyes, choosing to ignore that innuendo. "Dad's coming to get her soon," I remember more bitterly than I mean it to sound. "Probably when the others get back from the run."

"It's okay," Oliver reassures me, looking a little overwhelmed, like he's just ran a marathon and isn't sure if he wants to collapse or try to walk it off. "Just, maybe not today."

I'm frowning. Oliver laughs. I realise I'm not frowning at all, rather pouting like a damned child, so I do frown then, burying my urges again and again and again. "You should get some rest anyway," I manage. "Heal up before we leave."

Oliver tips up, and our eyelashes fluttering.

"Okay," he whispers, and I am about to roll off of him and sit in that chair again, indignant and half dressed, but he stops me. "No. No, stay here, with me?"

* * *

For pretty much the rest of the day I stay in Oliver's room with him, either curled up with him in bed or on my chair or playing with Judith, and he is in and out of consciousness every few hours, which Steven said was normal when he came in at one point. Dad came in a few hours ago. I'd luckily dressed myself again before that. Oliver was still asleep, but we woke him up and had some food. Tyreese's been in, and Carol (Oliver was asleep when she came in though), and Maggie and Noah. Most everyone else was still on the run, but they got back a little while ago.

Now though, we're alone again (bar Judith in her little pile of clothes, asleep now after her supper a few hours ago). Oliver is asleep, too, me curled up with him, and we've stayed like this for a while, and every moment is passing too quickly. I can see Atlanta out of the window over his shoulder as it turns a magnificent, deep, orange colour, littering the sky with pink clouds to the West and purple to the East. I want so much for time to stop all together, for us all to just stay like this, safe and together and happy, with cheesy, disturbing pun books and gross string beans and snoring babies... well, maybe the snoring babies can occasionally leave us a little while to be alone together. But my point remains the same regardless. I want it to stay like this. With us all safe and warm and not hungry or scared or alone. But of course, it has to end, and this evening, in the end, it is a knock on the door that finalises it.

"Baby Snatching Patrol."

Michonne.

Turns out I was more tired than I though, because I don't even try to sit up and regard her as she walks in.

"Oh," she stops when she sees me curled up with the sleeping De Luca, and I tiredly peer over my shoulder to see her, "uh, sorry. Didn't think you'd be asleep so early."

I'd dressed into the closest thing I could find as pyjamas a while ago, Oliver, too, which was only the thick, blue, Grady uniforms. But they were too hot to wear the tops and we'd just worn the pants. So, realising how we must look with only our bare shoulders visible over the edge of the blanket, I sit up, covering Oliver a little more and grabbing my flannel shirt from the floor, quickly pulling it on.

"Your lucky your dad asked me to come get her."

My cheeks heat up, but I do well to keep a straight face, "Michonne, relax."

She smirks, looking around for my sister. "Um, where is Judith?"

I take a seat on the chair, pointing. "She's the pile of clothes on the floor."

Michonne chuckles. "C'mere, ya little burito," she whispers to my sleeping sister, unravelling her from her encasement and then turning to leave with her. But she glances at me and smiles, the handle of her katana poking over her right shoulder. "I'm glad he's awake. For a while I didn't know if – I mean, I guess I just thought it would've been best if he didn't wake up." She stops talking, drawing in a sharp breath, wincing. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

"It's okay," I reassure her solemnly, and I glance at Oliver as he sleeps. "For a while I kinda did, too."

There is a long, understanding pause that Michonne and I share together. The same understanding pause that we shared the day we got to Terminus, when she spoke about her son, Andre, and how he died. Until she nods, "You're good to each other. Good _for _each other. I thought at first you both were just together for convenience – you know? Like, someone to fool around with – distracting yourselves in the middle of this big crazy mess... But you're not."

I'm not really sure how to respond, so I just nod, grateful for her even if I feel a little awkward by it.

"And, just so you know, so does your dad," Michonne says. "He doesn't say so and at times he might not know how he feels about it all. But he treats him like a second son. The way he talks about you both I sometimes can't tell if he means you or Oliver."

I let out a grateful chuckle, "Thanks," I say. Then I inhale and narrow my eyes. "Alright, what do you want?"

Michonne laughs, "What?"

"You're bein' so mushy to me. What do you want?"

She grins madly. "Nothing. Jeeze, a woman tries to be nice for once," she jests, raising her brow and throwing her free hand up. But then she drops her arm, puckering her lips to one side to chew on the inside of her lip. "But, now that you mention it." _Called it. _"Remember those comics, back at the Prison?"

I chuckle in triumph, glancing at Oliver as he sleeps. "I haven't seen a comic since. Sorry."

"Yeah, but I have."

I snap my head up at her. "You have?"

"Found an Invincible comic in a store today. You guys want in?"

I scoff, quietly as not to wake Oliver. "_Yes..._ What volume?"

Michonne shrugs, cradling Judith in her arms. "I'm not sure, I didn't look. No offence to the guy who wrote it but Science Dog and Monster Girl aren't really my kinda superheroes. I'm more into the Avengers."

"Ouch," I concur. "Hey, but there is a Kid Thor."

"Yeah, but he's not the _real_ Thor."

I sneer, "I didn't know that you were so into them. I thought you used to read them just to make me feel better."

She smiles, "I guess at first. But then I kinda fell in love with it all. Black Widow's my idol."

"Wolverine's better."

She frowns, "_Pfft._ He's jus' got funky hair and can openers in his fists."

"_Can openers_?"

Michonne smirks at me, "I'll come give them to you tomorrow."

"Thanks, Michonne."

"No problem," she nods, leaving, adding a, "Night, Carl," before the door shuts.

". . . Night."

I'm grinning, and I look at Oliver, and I think about how much I believe we're going to be okay now.

* * *

**Notes**

Haha, just had to let Judy get her cups back. Sure. They aren't red like they were in that episode in season 4, but I thought they were good enough.

Disclaimer: The joke book scene was not my full creation. It was inspired from The Last of Us, an amazing game that EVERYBODY should play! Also, if you do know the game, isn't Ellie one of the greatest characters ever!? ElliexRiley forever! OMG I adore them!

Also, yeah, I kinda bashed Robert Kirkman in this. _Invincible_ is his comic, and I made Michonne not like it just to ridiculously get back at him for killing... well, basically _EVERYONE! YOU DARNED MIND SCRAMBLING GENIUS..._ yeah, I know... stupid... but he deserves it!

Ps. Robert Kirkman actually rocks the whole world and is my total hero. He's up there with Ellie from The Last of Us, Carol (which definitely says something) and my brother.

Haha, made me giggle when Carl refereed to Oliver's junk as an undiscovered province. Haha, I have no idea where that shit came from. I was reading fangirl while I wrote that, I think Cath called Levi's lap uncharted territory or something, and she kept saying that she spent a lot of time trying not to think about what was happening in his lap. Ah, I love that book.

**Preview: Oliver and Carl spend a morning together. Also, Oliver finally talks with Carol, their first real time talking since she left, and they both have a lot to talk about.**

Tell me what you think xx

As always,  
Happy reading xxx :_)_


	50. Déjà vu

**Guest **Haha, I won't. When I write them, I don't mean for either of them to be the more submissive or dominant one in the couple. They are both just there for each other when they need to be. So, Oliver will comfort Carl, and Carl will comfort Oliver. I don't want that to mean that one of them is the more dominant or the more submissive. They're just them. Like a team. :) Haha, I guess that they distract each other so much that they forgot about Judith for a second haha. But truthfully, when you read it, where you thinking, "Guys, no! Judith's in the room!"? Haha, I'm guessing that all of you forgot about that part haha XD And yeah, that made me laugh about your girlfriend. Don't be depressed. Be happy that she respects herself enough, and just think, the wait will make being with her all the more awesome :) Super glad that you accept her wishes, proud of you x

**inazumahunter **Aw thank you! I had a whole other chapter with what Oliver felt and went through while he was listening to Carl break down, but I was scared it was too long, so I left it out. I still have it though. I might upload it to SOOP instead :) and yeah, I liked the blood type bit too, apparently my Dad has the same blood type, too. Hey! At least it wasn't as bad as Lori and Rick doing a bit of Judith making when 12 year old Carl was sleeping only just next to them in a damned tent! That was outrageous! He could've been scarred for life!

**Rolo-chan **Haha the catheter was great! I witnessed a similar thing when my mum talked abut her own catheter once. She wasn't impressed, but she wasn't nearly as horrified as Oliver was. Haha. She laughed when I told her she inspired that scene. Yeah, it's kind of super important to me that Oliver can bring that little bit of light into the chapters. Like Glenn can, when he tripped over the mop and boxes, and all the other times. But I liked the darkish touches to it, like when the cannibal joke made them a little freaked out, and the banker part with the lost interest to show how little they know about grow up stuff and probably never will need to know. It's so much fun and I'm waaay too into it. Haha But as long as I'm making people happy, I'm good :D

**Hey! Sorry about the comments to a few of you all with accounts. There was a fault with the comment system after I deleted and unwanted chapter, but it'll be working again now xx**

**Beginning of chapter: **

**Carl's POV**

Oliver and I had woken up and gotten ourselves out of his room fairly early this morning, not surprising since his sleeping pattern is a little out of wrack. But that's okay. He's still getting a lot of rest like Steven told him to, and his injuries are healing well.

Right now, we're headed over to the wash rooms.

"You can shower or you can take a bath. Your choice," I tell him. "Steven said that the water supply is rain sourced, so it'll be cold, but, you know, it's something."

"Haven't had a bath in forever," Oliver mumbles as we walk.

I smile, "Okay. Just through here." I lead him into the wash rooms, which, essentially is a hallway with doors leading into separate rooms with a bath and shower in them. So we turn into the first room we come across on our right, closing the door behind us.

The room is fairly large compared to what I had first expected a week ago, but after using it a few times now it has become fairly cosy to me. The look on Oliver's face says that he's impressed. The tub sits in the centre of the tiled room, and a hosepipe has been tied to the side of the tub that hangs up from the ceiling and comes from a shower in the corner of the room. Steven had told me how to rig it up to fill the bath, so with a little tweaking, I guide the right pipe to feed the hose, switching it on from the shower.

"It's working," Oliver announces, his voice merging with the noise of flowing water.

I step out of the shower and smile at him. "Awesome. I, uh, I'll wait outside."

"You can stay," Oliver glances at me over his shoulder, his hand playing with the water, "you know, if you want to."

I sort of stare at him for a moment. "You sure?"

Oliver nods, "Yeah. It'll feel weird talking to you through a door."

"Weirder than talking to you while you're naked?"

Oliver shrugs. "I'll be naked either way, dork. And I know that it wasn't just Steven washing me while I was in my coma."

I grin at the floor, blushing darker than I have done in a while.

"It's fine," Oliver says, blushing a little as well. "I guess it's nothing I'd never intended you to see one day anyway. I mean, um, a-apart from the catheter..."

I laugh at that, blushing more as I walk over to him. "Just so you know, the catheter was never something I was involved in. _Ever._"

Oliver steps over to me, grinning madly as he leans forward and presses his lips to mine. Barely giving me enough time to kiss him back before he pulls away and turns around to begin undressing. I turn around too, trying to stop myself from smiling as I listen to him pull off his patient's robe. It drops to the floor at his feet and I hear a shuffle as he steps away from it.

"Uh, can I use your shoulder a sec?" Oliver asks quietly. "I can't... I can't balance."

Oliver is a teenager of surprisingly good balance and elegance, proven to me on many occasions. Though, he is not lying to me. He's weak. In his recuperating state it is a wonder he is already on his feet at all.

"Yeah," I nod, bracing myself. "Yeah, go ahead."

His hand grips my left shoulder as he struggles to keep himself from stumbling while he pulls off his underwear. I lift my hand to his, running my thumb over his knuckles. "You okay?" I ask when he jolts dangerously.

"Uh, yeah, I got it," Oliver answers slightly awkwardly. "I'm gonna get in now."

"'Kay," I mumble, listening as he steps into the water, hearing the sloshing as the hose continues to fill up the tub.

When he is comfortable, after a little hissing through his teeth and gasping from the cold temperature, he is led down on his back with his head rested on the edge of the tub. I take a seat where I am with my back to the end of the tub, but slightly closer to it on one side, allowing me to see Oliver's face a little out of the corner of my vision on my right so that we can talk.

He glances at me, drawing his lips into his mouth as I stare at the floor. "You don't have to stay in here," he whispers apologetically.

"No, I want to," I say, quickly glancing at him, before looking away again. "I mean. I'm fine. Just... I jus' kinda feel like I'm peeping."

Oliver chuckles, "Don't worry, you're not. Peeping's when the person doesn't know you're looking, and since you're not really looking, you're not really peeping."

I grin, "Yeah, but how do you know I haven't been lookin' though? Like you said... it wasn't jus' Steven washing you before."

"You're right. You _are_ a peeping-tom!" Oliver chuckles, before splashing the back of my head.

"Hey!" I gasp, jolting forward, but he does it again. "Hey! You're getting my clothes," I growl, glaring at him. But then I see it, not even meaning to glance between his legs in the first place, and I spin around, feeling my cheeks blush madly. "Sorry," I blurt.

Oliver hums a chuckle, "It's okay."

I dip my head, biting my lip in coyness and almost feeling him watching the back of my head, enjoying this.

"You're such a gentleman, Carl."

I grin, rubbing my nose awkwardly, "Thanks a lot."

He waits a moment. "Pass the soap?"

I see it on the counter in front of me and I reach over and grab it, handing it to him over my shoulder.

"Thanks, man."

"You know?" I smile, turning my head slightly to see his expression out of my peripheral vision, "you look a lot more comfortable without the catheter."

"Shut up," Oliver splashes me again, and I hear as the water surrounding him sloshes about in the tub.

Instinctively I turn and glare at him again, thinking that the noise was him about to splash me, and readying myself to _advise _him to rethink his actions.

But that's not what he was doing.

My breath collapses in my throat, scrunching my eyes shut immediately and turning away, but the image burns into my eyes even in the darkness behind my lids.

He had pulled himself under the water completely, submerged his shoulders and face and blowing bubbles through his nose. The surface of the water rippling and sparkling in the morning sunlight that shines through the window, Oliver's torso glowing as the wavy shadows caste themselves across his shoulders and chest and abdomen. All this trailing down to that strange, seductive, 'V' shaped part of his pelvis, where that thin line of dark brown, hair starts... gracefully leading down to his. . .

Okay, fine, so maybe I didn't quite shut my eyes _immediately._

Oliver comes up from the water behind me to get his breath back, and I hear him running his hands through his hair to spread the soap through. "I think you can switch off the water now," he suggests.

My spine is rigid, and my eyes are still clamped, trying to rid myself of the distracting, erotic image stuck like glue in my mind.

"Carl?"

I jump. "Y-yeah, sorry, what?"

"The tub's getting pretty full. We'll waste water if we leave it on."

"Oh," I blurt, "okay. I got it."

I go and switch it off, quickly poking my head out of the shower cubicle afterwards, glancing at Oliver to see that he is sat up now, discreetly concealing his more intimate areas. Which is both a relief and a slight disappointment.

Though, what I am looking at, I realise, is just as mesmerising.

I'd never thought about how attractive Oliver's back is. The way his shoulder blades move with his arms, and when he breathes his ribcage expands slowly and securely, the ridges of the thin bones that protect his lungs and heart rolling under his skin as if he is some kind of high technology artificial intelligence. With intricate mechanics and motor works ticking away inside of him. But it's his spine that is the most captivating. The crease of it, encased on either side with those softly toned muscles trailing their sturdy, brilliant way down his back, flexing and contracting with every slight movement he makes, and the nodules of vertebrae as they run in a neat, perfect line up all the way to his neck.

Just to be clear, I am not immaturely shy towards seeing Oliver naked, it's just that with everything last night, what with us getting pretty intimate together (more intimate than we ever have before) well, it's had some strange side effects on me. To put it bluntly; fairly persistent _thoughts_ have been spinning through my mind ever since, and I'm pretty certain that soon I wont be able to stop my body from deciding to make a more physical appearance again if I get any more reason to think more about it all, and then it will be like that morning at the suburb house all over again.

Though, my short hypnotism is cut short when Oliver glances over his shoulder to me. "Thanks," he says quietly, his hair still soaking and hanging all wet and brown into his eyes.

I blink away the stars in my vision... the Oliver in my vision, leaning off of the wall corner a little and clearing my head. "N-no problem."

"You know, it's not that cold," he tells me. "The water, I mean."

I walk over to him, and Oliver draws his legs up to discreetly hide himself, I think for my sake more than his own, as Oliver seems pretty comfortable being this exposed in front of me.

"Feel," he suggests.

I lean down and dip my hand into the water, rolling my fingers under the tepid liquid and watching the small air bubbles wobble away from my skin. "Yeah, 's kinda nice."

"Do you wanna go in after me?"

I glance at him, taking a moment to watch as he cups some water and splashes it over his shoulder, causing the soapy flow to roll down his shoulder blade, glistening in the light against his tanned skin. For a moment I wonder if he's doing it on purpose, seducing me like that. Because he has to be. No one is that mesmerising without even trying.

"Carl?"

"Hm."

"Do you?"

"Mhm," is all I manage, quickly clearing my throat and looking back at the water for something else to stare at that might subdue my thoughts.

"Okay," he says, seemingly oblivious to the tornado of hormones he is causing to spin through me right now, "lemme just rinse off and I'll get out."

"How's your bandage?" I ask as I take a seat beside the tub where I was before.

"It's coming off a little. But Steven'll sort it."

"Can't believe you got shot."

I'm not sure why I said that. It's strange how that happens around him. My mind just doesn't even try to stop me from speaking without thinking about it. I hear Oliver shift in the water, and a moment later, the humidity of his skin as he leans towards me and kisses under my ear. My head rolls back into him automatically, closing my eyes as we press for a moment, and then lifting my cast-hand to cup the back of his neck, feeling the cool water soak into my callused hands.

"Don't think about that, Carl."

I smile, craning my neck that little bit more to press my cheek to his face, an intimate moment flowing through us that makes the natural serenity of him all the more beautiful. "Love you, De Luca."

Oliver smiles, kissing under my ear again in silent reply.

With an intake of breath... an intake of Oliver, I turn my head and smile at him. "Here," I say as I lift my hat from my head, gently placing it on his and pressing it down slightly over his hair. "You're in the club now, too."

Oliver grins proudly, his eyes staring up at the brown rim of my hat as it sits on his head, his mouth open a little. He's never worn it before. No reason in particular. It had just never happened.

"Looks good," I understate, as the sight of him in the hat, and the hat only, is nothing short of spellbinding. "Really, really."

He looks at me and grins, trying to subdue it by biting his lower lip.

All I can do is stare. My heart beat quickening and my cheeks growing hot and flustered... and he really isn't helping. At all! Like, at _fucking_ all! Because he has to be doing it on purpose. Sat there, in the tub, with his knees up to his chest and his slender arms rested lazily over them, biting his damn lip, sparkling those damn eyes, those brown, gold, amazing eyes... and naked...

So fucking naked that it hurts!

"My hair's gonna get it wet."

I hum words that I haven't thought of yet, emerging from the seductive coil he's cast over me... drowning me in it like a dolphin stuck in a fishing net.

But I focus again when he giggles at me.

"W-what?" I mumble.

"Your hat. It's gonna get wet from my hair."

"You already splashed it. Can't really make any difference."

He chuckles, "Here," he says anyway, taking off the hat and handing it to me. "You wear it. You look better in it than I do."

_No, Oliver. No I really don't._

Once Oliver is finished, I go and fetch him a towel, holding it up for him as he carefully gets out of the tub. I do that 'gentleman' thing and discretely look away as he does, and when he takes the towel and wraps it around his waist he chuckles and kisses my cheek. "I can look away too," he whispers into my ear, "if you want."

I chuckle, slightly shell shocked, meeting his gaze again and holding it for a long moment. Then he leans in, or, I do. I'm not sure. I was going to pull away and let him go ahead with dressing, but Oliver keeps kissing me, and so I lean closer, locking my lips to his.

My hands trail around his bear middle and gently palm the small of his back, my fingers nestling into that brilliant groove of his spine and feeling his muscles move and flex under my hands, with just the towel around his waist acting as the only covering on his body. Suddenly throwing ourselves to the floor and having our way with each other almost becomes a possibility, but finally, I gain enough self control to gently break our kiss, tensely pausing our lip lock, pressing our foreheads, but unable to pull away any more than that.

"I... I kinda feel like we aren't finished... after last night," I whisper, shifting my eyes between his coffee ones.

"Yeah, me too." He kisses me again, a simple press and release. "But, we should get ready."

I nod, doing my best to bury my urges as well as he is, letting out a sigh to try and aid myself.

"No," Oliver closes his eyes briefly, a lop sided, goofy grin on his face, "I mean, I want to, too. But everybody's gonna be waking up soon, and people are gonna be waiting to come in here and wash... I don't want us to have to rush, you know?"

"I know," I smirk at him. "I'm not taking it personally." I kiss him one last time. "Go get ready."

"My clothes are back in our room."

"Oh yeah. I forgot to get 'em. You okay getting back?"

Oliver nods, "Yeah. I'll see you in a few minutes."

He puts on the robe he came in here with and then leaves, and I am left alone in the bathroom to wash.

There is something about being able to wash that is never going to get old to me. The feeling of clean skin on clean clothes. Though, washing myself without my right hand has its own challenges. But I manage, then I dry myself off and change into my clothes again.

When I get back to my room, Oliver is dressed and waiting for me. He has a comic in his hand.

"Michonne came in a few minutes ago," he says happily, "said she wanted us to have it."

"Oh, awesome!" I smile, sitting beside him and skimming through the _Invincible _comic. I've read the volume before, seeing the pictures now bringing back a wave of nostalgia as I re-remember the story.

"Don't read now," Oliver chuckles.

"What? Why?" I mumble, not looking up to him.

He gently pulls the comic from my hands and puts it beside him on the pillow. "If you start reading it now you're never gonna put it down."

I roll my eyes, "Alright, _Dad_."

Oliver scoffs and grimaces, "Come on, man. Let's take a walk."

"A _walk_?"

He nods, "Yeah. I haven't walked much since I woke up, kinda wanna get my land legs back."

"Okay, fine." I take his hand and pull him off of the bed.

"Watch my shoulder," he warns, chuckling. "Jeeze, wasn't expecting you to be so eager."

"C'mon, let's go," I smirk.

So, while everyone else starts waking up and beginning their day, Oliver and I go for a walk around the fifth floor. It's nice like this, relaxed, alone, our hands securely weaved together and Oliver leaning on me slightly as we go to reduce strain on his body.

"Leaving tomorrow," Oliver says after a while of comfortable silence as we walk down a deserted corridor.

"Yeah. So long as you're strong enough."

"I'll be fine."

I squeeze his hand in my good one, "Good."

"You worried about me?" Oliver chuckles to himself, and for no real reason I grin, dipping my head to hide my blushing cheeks under my hat. But Oliver lifts it, using his knuckle to do so, "Can't hide from me, man."

I laugh through my teeth, holding his eye contact as my cheeks darken. "Call it whatever you want," I tell him.

"What," he says cockily, "you hiding or you worrying?"

"Both," I answer.

Oliver's brow rises and he grins, "Ah, so you _are_ worried about me!"

I laugh at him, "Whatever."

He chuckles, stroking my thumb with his as we step into the next hallway, passing a Grady resident that looks a few years older than us. She nods as we pass, exchanging a friendly, _"good morning" _to us which we return.

"Did you ever have a favourite move?" Oliver asks once we are alone again.

"Um, I don't think so... Don't really remember much, just Disney stuff mostly. What about you?"

"I'm not sure there's anything I wouldn't do to watch a _Lord of the Rings_ marathon."

"Haven't you already watched them a hundred times?"

Oliver nods proudly. "Yeah, but you haven't."

"That's true. But, doesn't it take almost an hour for the main characters to even start their journey or something?"

"Yeah. Then you've got another six and a half hours of the rest of it all. But it's still great."

I snicker.

"Look, if you won't read the books," Oliver says grudgingly, because he'd always argue with me back at the Prison because I was always too busy reading something else, or simply avoiding it to annoy him, "then we'll just have to watch the movies together."

I scoff, "Yeah? How're you gonna make that work?"

Oliver shrugs. "I dunno. Probably never will. But I can still make a deal with you."

I let out a breath, frowning in jestful challenge, "Alright. What's the deal?"

"If we ever find a way to watch a movie, _and_ we have the trilogy, we'll watch them. And you can't say no and come up with some lame excuse. It starts off slow, and yes, it takes almost an hour for Frodo and Sam to start their journey, but they're totally worth watching."

I scoff, confused by if he is saying all this for or against the idea. "I think you've been in here for too long," I tell him, "you're forgetting there's an army of dead just outside the door waiting for us."

Oliver purses his lips and lets his smile fade. "I know," he admits solemnly. "And I know that it'll never happen. But." He shrugs. "It's nice to just imagine, sometimes, you know?"

I nod, choosing to go along with his imagination, just for a moment. "So, would this be like a date?"

Oliver smiles gratefully, nodding and shrugging at the same time. "I guess. But, not all cliché and sappy. I mean, unless you're into that sort of stuff. Then I guess I could make an exception."

"I'm good," I smirk. "Thanks though."

He laughs to himself, coming to a stop just outside of a doorway to our left. "So, is it a deal?" Oliver asks.

I smile at him, nodding without even having to think about it. Then I lace my hands with both of his, letting them hang next to us as I stand in front of him with his back to the wall. "Yeah. Deal."

Oliver smiles, leaning forward a little, "Good."

I lean towards him too, about to let our lips touch. But our heads snap to my left as we hear someone walking towards us, soon about to round the corner to encounter us.

Suddenly Oliver is out of my grip, and I am dragged through the doors we were stood by before my mind and legs catch up to his movement.

"Gyuhh!" I let out a groan as he pulls me into the hallway, tugging me to crouch out of the view of the small, circular window, pulling my sleeve, luckily considerate enough to do it on my good hand. "_Hey!_" I bark at him.

"_Shh!_" he hisses back, "stay low."

I relax my glare, doing as he says as we listen quietly for the stranger to pass.

**Oliver's POV**

"Sorry," I apologise when the coast is clear, standing up and feeling strong enough to help Carl stand, too. "Just... wanted some privacy for a little while longer."

"It's fine," he says, and in the dark hallway I only just make out his smirk in the light from the window in the door behind him. "Let's find a light."

I skim my hands across the wall, finding the switch and clicking it on. The hallway flickers into view. It's long, with posters and bulletin boards and signs along the walls. But what catches my eye as Carl and I make our way down the long hallway is the open elevator at the very end.

But before I have time to think anything more about that, Carl has taken my hand and swivelled around to face me, walking backwards as we continue down the hallway.

"So... Sap and cliché aside, on this date. What'll be so great about _Lord of the Rings?_"

I grin at him, surprised that he is quite as much of a hopeless romantic as this. Though I would never say that out loud in respect for his pride.

"I dunno," I answer, "I just always loved it... Hobbits and Elves and Wizards and magic fireworks... And, it'd be fun, just you and me."

Carl smirks, backing up to lead us towards the elevator, but by the blush on his cheeks and the look on his face I can tell that all I'd just said sounds perfect to him. "And what would we do?" he asks curiously.

"Watch the movie?" I chuckle. "I dunno, we'd just be there, wherever _there _could be." It's only in this moment, as Carl's right eyebrow cocks a little, that I realise what he'd actually meant by his question. So I grin, blushing and finally catching on. "But there would be kissing... and... other stuff, too." I watch as his pupils dilate a little, only just realising that I'm biting my lip, so I release it.

"W-what kind of _other stuff_?"

"Whatever stuff you want," I say slowly and quietly, causing him to walk a little slower so that he is closer to me, waiting for me to keep talking. "Whatever stuff we thi - - WATCH OUT!"

He's about to step into the elevator.

The elevator that isn't there.

The elevator that is just a sheer drop five stories below.

Fight or flight kicks me around the face in the same instant I scream at him, forcing me to wrench him back into the hallway before his odd shoe even lands on the nothingness.

"Oliver!" he yells as he crashes into me, both of us landing in a messy heap on the lino floor.

"Agh! _Fuck!_" I grunt, my ribs screaming for the pressure that has just plummeted into them to go away, the blow from hitting the floor sending a rocket of agony through my bullet wound.

"Jesus, what the heck was that?" he demands, clearly at the end of his tether on the whole being dragged around thing that he has had to put up with twice this morning. I wince, and he pulls himself off of me as carefully as he can.

"The elevator – l-look," is all I can manage, clutching around my ribcage as he helps me to stand up.

"What? Yeah, I know, I was gonn-"

"No," I grumble. "_Look._"

I lead him over to it, clutching the side of the empty elevator edge.

"Oh, shit," falls from his mouth as he finally sees it.

"Shh," I say softly, clutching my ribs, "l-listen to that."

We lean closer, and our hearts drop at the same moment as we peer down the elevator shaft together. Hearing the distinct groaning coming from the base of the sheer drop, but it being so far that the blackness eats up the bottom before we can see it. I'm brutally brought back to reality, reminded of just how dangerous it is here. Not just in Grady. But everywhere. No where is safe anymore.

"Never let your guard down," I finish my thoughts out loud.

"Yeah," Carl agrees a little shakily.

Slowly, almost comically, we back away from the empty elevator, our skin crawling as the moans and groans of the dead stick to our ear drums like parasites.

I look at the floor, noticing scuff marks and small blood splatters near the frame. Images of people getting pushed to their doom over the edge attacks my mind, and it is Carl as he gently takes my hand that finally snaps me out of my intrusive thoughts.

"This is where Noah and Beth escaped," I whisper, only just realising.

"How do you know that?" Carl whispers back.

Realising that we don't need to be so quiet, I speak normally again, "Noah told me on the way here. Said they climbed down it, but he fell and that's how he hurt his leg again."

Carl nods, both of us glancing at the elevator. "C'mon, Oliver..." He's whispering again. "I don't like it in here."

I look at him, startled by how young he suddenly sounded just then.

He seems to realise this because he hardens his expression and tugs my sleeve more firmly. "C'mon. We should go get you to Steven. Get you checked on."

We quickly leave the hallway together, flicking off the light switch and shutting the swinging doors behind us as if the darkness will grab hold of us and throw us into the elevator shaft itself. But it doesn't, and so we make our way to the Doctor. I make an effort not to stare at his healing bruised eye as he re-wraps my bullet wound, which is now scabbing well, and then he checks Carl's hand, and once we both have taken our medication; painkillers and antibiotics, we finally head down to the truck to get our breakfast.

_~ Hours later ~_

"Hey, uh, can I come in a sec?"

Carol looks up to me from her book as she sits it her chair. I read _Treating Survivors of Childhood Abuse _on the cover. She closes the book and raises her eyebrows as a smile pulls at her mouth, "Hey, sweetie. C'mon in," she invites warmly.

"How are you feeling?" I ask her as I step into her room.

"Really good," she answers. "Sorry I didn't eat supper with you 'n' everyone else a minute ago. I ate earlier with Daryl before he 'n' Sasha left for perimeter check. But what about you, sweetie? You're lookin' stronger each time I see you."

I grin, "Yeah, I'm doing really good too. Steven gave me some pain killers this morning. He didn't need to give me the stronger stuff though – said I was healing well enough not to need them."

"Good. That's really good."

I smile, "I'm looking forward to getting out of here in the morning."

"Me too. This place makes me feel a little claustrophobic."

"Really? Why?"

She shrugs, "I dunno. I guess it kinda reminds me of CDC a little. But, I just keep tellin' myself that we're above ground this time, which helps."

"Good." _I'm guessing she doesn't know about the elevator shaft.__** No. And I think it should stay that way, Oliver.**_

She smiles, gesturing me to sit on the bed in front of her her.

"Thanks," I say, glad for the rest because my body is beginning to tire slightly. I mean, I could still walk around for hours if I had to, but given the option, I think I'll take the seat. So I push myself onto the bed, having to support myself with my hand on the beside table a little. There's dust on it, unsurprising given that this room was unused before Carol took it.

"Pardon the dust," Carol says as she watches me subtly brush it off on my leg.

"No biggie," I say dismissively. "Better than walker guts." _**It's almost painful how true that is. **__No, it's painful because we both know it from first hand experience._

Carol's expression drifts slightly, suddenly distracted by her thoughts.

"What is it?" I ask quietly.

"Oh. Nothing. I jus'... remembered somethin'."

"Of outside Terminus?" I ask, guessing she would think of it from what I'd said about the walker guts.

"No, not that," she says, but her eyebrows are arched, the thin lipped smile of hers softening. "The car that I left in on my run with Rick, when I didn't come back. Somebody'd written _'Pardon the dust' _along the windows... Reminded me of it jus' then – what I said."

During the days on the tracks after the girls, Carol told me what really happened when she left, when Rick made her go. How she drove to a nearby town and slept there, and how she saw the smoke from the Prison the next day and came back to help the family she'd been exiled from, only to find and follow Tyreese and the girls before finally showing herself when she had to save Mika and Lizzie from some walkers.

"Carol?"

She nods.

"Did you, um, give me these?" I pull out the girl's jewellery from my pocket, delicately holding them in my palm.

Her brow arches, "Yeah," she says nostalgically. "Girls gave 'em to me the mornin' it all happened so that they could wash. But, I forgot to give 'em back... an' then... at their burial... I just..."

"You just didn't want to forget either," I finish for her humanely.

She gives me a sad smile. "Yeah," she confirms almost inaudibly.

"Can. . ." I ask almost as if I'm asking incredulously, half expecting Carol to snatch them from my hand. "Can I have them?"

But she nods. "Yeah. I gave them to you."

"Does Ty know?"

"No. He doesn't... Okay?"

I take her hint, "I'll keep them discreet."

She sighs, dipping her head. "I don't think he'd mind. I just, don't think he'd like to see them all the time. But, if anyone should get to keep them, it's you."

I nod in understanding, putting the belongings back in my pocket. Not stealing them, more, keeping them close, caring and preserving them like a compulsive delusion that in doing so will protect their memory.

Then we sit in quiet for a few minutes, Carol contently going back to her book, me crossing my legs and relaxing as I sit on the bed, picking at my thumbs the same way my mother used to do. It's because I'm nervous. I wanted to talk about something with Carol... something specific and something that I'd much rather never to talk to anyone about, but I know that I should talk to her – I've been _told _that I should talk to her about it, only, I can't seem to bring myself to.

In my efforts to bring the topic out of my mouth, I look out over Atlanta through her window, which she has left open to let a breeze in. It smells of Winter. If that makes sense. The cool, crisp air that is warmer than it probably would be in most other places in America right now, but also mixed with nothing I am wise enough to name. But it is familiar, and refreshing, and algid, reminding me of the nights I would spend on my porch with Patrick, sat on the swinging seat (before we broke it) quietly playing _MARVEL Top Trumps_ together until it got too dark and cold so we would have to come in and resume our game in his or my room.

The sun is going to set in a little while, I can tell by the dimming, blues and reds decorating the clear sky behind the silhouettes of skyscrapers outside. But then I see something that isn't just a cloud like I thought it was. Smoke.

"Did you guys set a fire or something?"

"Not that I know of. Daryl and Sasha might've," she answers into her book. But then her eyebrows furrow slightly and she glances up at me. "Why?"

I flick my chin towards the window. Carol looks, spotting the thin column of white smoke as it rises into the sky. Neither of us say anything for a long moment, though both of us think about the same two young girls, and in the end it is me who speaks.

"It isn't burning anymore. Smoke's white," I say, my voice only a whisper. I dip my head, picking restlessly at the skin around my thumb again. "I... I think about the girls all the time. When it gets quiet and there's nothing to distract me anymore... They're never gonna leave. Just like the smoke... It all just... _follows_ us."

For a moment I am struck with a strange sort of déjà vu that I can't put my finger on. I look at Carol, and see that she's staring at me, looking as though she is about to ask me something. But she shakes it off and looks back at the smoke.

"What is it?" I ask her quietly.

"Nothing, it's just... I said something similar to you while you were in your coma. Did you hear me?"

I pause, honestly not knowing my answer. "I watched a movie once where that happened," I say instead. "Didn't think it was possible but... sometimes, I remember fragments. You know? People talking in my head. Someone holding my hand. Someone crying. Or... screaming... But I can't remember anything that fits together. Nothing that makes sense."

"Well, wouldn't worry over it too much," she reassures me.

I nod, watching as that sad smile tenses, knowing that there is something upsetting her.

"_Is she okay...? I mean, not getting hit, or falling from a building... but is _she _okay?" I asked Daryl, __on the steps outside of the Church, that morning we all left for Grady._

"_You're gonna ask her yourself..." he told me._

So I do as told.

"Are you okay, Carol?"

"Yeah, I told you, I'm healing well."

"No," I shake my head, arching my eyebrows. "I mean... are, _you... _okay?"

There is a pause, and then Carol does something I wasn't entirely expecting, suddenly standing from her chair and wrapping her arms around me. I bury my face into her shoulder, hugging her around her middle as my appreciation for her suddenly soars in my chest.

"I'll take that as an _"I'm working on it"_, then?" I whisper finally, sensing that she deserves the mild jest as comfort.

She squeezes me tighter in her emotion, until I let out a groan and wince, the pressure a little too much for my injuries, my bullet wound still throbbing slightly from the fall I took with Carl this morning. So Carol lets go instantly, quickly planting a kiss on my forehead before pulling away. "Sorry," she mumbles, "forgot for a moment you're more broken than I am."

"I'm okay," I assure her quietly, fairly certain that it's _her_ that's more broken than me, maybe not physically, but emotionally. Only making the woman no less than a hero to me.

"You're so much like her," she whispers, holding my eye contact and resting her leg as she stands in front of me, leaning slightly on the bed with one hand on the mattress and smiling. But she looks sad. So sad... _Always_ sad... and it breaks my heart. "Just like my little Sophia."

I stay silent in the pause that follows, waiting for her to speak, making an effort not to furrow my eyebrows or move at all.

"Children aren't supposed to die before their parents," Carol tells me. "We're not built for that kind of loss... It's something that destroys you."

"You weren't destroyed, Carol," I almost whisper, frowning slightly. "You were _made._ She'd be so proud of you. I know she would."

Carol purses her lips, doing well to keep the tears away.

". . . Why did you leave us, Carol?"

Carol sighs, her brow furrowing. "Oliver... I." But she stops, looking away and shrugging to hide the sudden welling in her crystal gray eyes.

There is a long silence as she glares at the smoke through the window, and I try to ignore the stabbing feeling in my gut. Until finally, she wipes her eyes and brings her gaze back to lock it on mine.

"I had to. . . I couldn't just sit around and watch you all die," she tells me, sounding desperate for me to understand, but fighting hard not to show it. "I'm... I couldn't."

I stare at her, my brow arching in sympathy. She's so broken. So much more than I had ever speculated.

"That's all that ever happens anymore," she says. "We don't get to save people... not anymore... We all just wait for it to happen. An'," she shrugs, lifting her eyebrows and pretending that every word she is saying doesn't cut her open inside, "it always does." She gasps then, frowning, as if she's frustrated by my acceptance of her words, as if she wants me to argue with her, and when I still don't she fights her sob, forcing the contort from her expression. "_You..._" Her brow arches and her word cracks loudly, choking in her throat. "Look at you, Oliver. Look at what _I_ did to you."

"You didn't-"

"I don't deserve this."

I shake my head desperately, suddenly distraught. "Carol..." I mutter, wanting to rest my hand on her shoulder or hold her hand or wrap my arms around her, but I know she'd only refuse my sympathy, truly believing that she doesn't deserve it. "It wasn't you. It wasn't your fault." My voice cracks. "None of it."

Her eyes stare upward to blink away her tears.

"I'm alive, Carol," I tell her clearly, swallowing the lump in my throat, trying to be as strong as she always is. "_You're,_ alive... And, I know that a lot of us haven't made it this far... and I know that there are things we could have done to save them." I think about what Carl told me that day outside of the Church when I told him about Mika and Lizzie. "But it's done... we can't change any of it. It wasn't up to us, and it happened. . . At the Grove, wh-when I told you what happened to me in the suburb? Remember what you told me?"

She takes a deep breath, gritting her teeth as she nods, staring at me with more intensity than I think she ever has before.

"Then live up to what you said. Before the guilt – that same guilt that's latched on to you ever since you lost your little girl – before it eats you whole. Because you don't deserve it, Carol. You've learnt from it. And you've taken it ever since."

Then Carol is hugging me again.

She doesn't let herself cry though. I know that she can't let herself feel it all. Everything she's lost and done and afraid of losing and doing. But it doesn't mean that she doesn't need the comfort, and so I keep hold of her, knowing and so incredibly grateful that she trusts me enough to share this.

We don't exchange any more words for a long while after that.

Carol takes a seat on the other side of the bed, her back to me, and without even having to think about it we lean back so that our spines press against each others, and we just sit like that. For so long that the sun finally sets over Atlanta and the room falls into the artificial light of the lamp on Carol's bedside table.

"C'mon," she says finally, motioning me to get off the bed, "you should head back to your room. Get your rest before we leave tomorrow."

I hop onto the floor, glad that the throbbing in my ribcage and shoulder had subsided a long time ago. I walk over to the door, but I pause before I leave, remembering what I wanted to come in her for in the first place. So I turn around, pursing my lips, "Uh... Carol?"

"Hm?" she hums.

"Can I, uh... Can I ask you something?" I'm awkward. Painfully awkward. "Well, not really ask, just, _talk_ to you... about, you know..."

Carol senses my discomfort and she puts her book down to focus on me. "Everything alright?" she asks.

I thumb at the door frame, considering not talking about this at all in fear of how she will react. I've never had to speak about this kind of thing with anyone, except Carl, but the closest I ever came to it with anyone else was with Rick the night he asked me about Carl and I's relationship, and once with my mom. So, my apprehension is more than I had anticipated. A lot more.

Carol arches her eyebrows, moving to sit on her chair and then patting the bed for me to sit in front of her.

I go over, "Um... I-I... I."

She dips her head, staring into my eyes and pressing her palms together, "Something you wanna talk about?" she asks, knowing my answer in that _Caroly way_ of hers. So I don't even have to reply. "This 'bout you an' Carl?"

Then I nod.

Carol inhales through her nose and sits back slightly, examining me. "You know, I always thought it would be my daughter I'd be talking to about this with first. Lucky for you, 'cause I planned it all out. Might need to tweak my lecture a little for you though."

I stare at her, amazed that she is smiling slightly. But all the same, I'm still slightly terrified. "_Lecture_?"

She smirks. "Don't worry... So, I'm guessing you've got questions? Things y'aren't sure about?"

"Well, it's just..." I fumble with how to explain, feeling the heat of nervousness crawl up my neck and over my cheeks. "Lately we've been getting, kinda, uh, close... Like that, but."

Carol waits for me to explain, but sensing that I am unable to think how to finish she speaks instead. "Are you two sleeping together?" she asks, her demeanor simply asking with no particular opinion behind her voice that I can tell.

I shake my head, feeling the uncomfortable heat crawling up my neck and into my cheeks even more, but grateful that Carol is being gracious about it all.

"But you wanna be." It wasn't a question this time. Neither was it as gracious.

I choke on my answer, my response alone being enough of one for her to understand. Talking about this with Carl is one thing... talking about it with someone else... it's _really _difficult.

"Oliver," Carol says. "It's normal. You're teenagers. Yes, you both are minors, an' I'm fairly sure that Rick'd prefer it if you waited 'til you were a little older. But I'm not gonna lecture you 'bout that - before it was impossible to get kids to wait. Now there's no chance. But, you need to know that acting on your impulses an' doin' this together without thinkin' may not be the right thing to do. You know - the right time, for you both."

I nod, unable to summon my voice.

"But you're in a relationship," she says, "a decent one at that from what I'm aware of, so, it's gonna happen eventually. You just needa know you're both ready." She pauses, squinting at me slightly. "Is this making you too uncomfortable?"

It's only now that I realise I was grimacing. So I stop and shake my head, ignoring my burning cheeks. "Uh. No. It's just that I've never talked about this with anyone, l-like this, I mean, other than him. And, my mom once, but I was a lot younger, and, you know, she didn't exactly expect me to end up with a boyfriend, so."

Carol nods and smiles a little, "It's good you both've talked about this though. That's a good thing."

I nod, not sure what else to do.

"D'you know how to make love?" she asks, deciding to be blunt about it.

I nod in answer, slightly terrified she will ask me _how_ I know. (Copious amounts of Googling is to blame, followed by just as copious amounts of deleting internet history.)

Luckily, Carol is an intelligent and gracious woman, and so she doesn't ask me that. "Good," is what she says, followed by, "but you gotta know that sex isn't jus' a physical thing that makes you feel good. It's emotional... Intimate... A bonding experience... That's why it's called 'making love'... D'you understand, sweetie?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good... And another thing... a thing that you and Carl of all people will understand, what with what you both've had to go through before... Consent," Carol says. I guess Rick or Daryl told her what almost happened to Carl outside of Terminus. "Consent is so important. You both need to make absolutely sure that you're okay with what you're doing together. And you need to know that you trust each other enough to say no at any time. Any time at all. You gotta respect his wishes no matter what, and he to you, too."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good," she says, "because sex, whatever form or level of it, isn't to be taken lightly. You both need to know that it's what you want from each other an' that you're absolutely ready for it. Keep talkin' about it with him. Find out what he's comfortable with. From what Rick's told me about you both, Carl's gonna need to know about this as well."

I exhale and nod. "Wait, you and Rick've talked about us?"

She doesn't even try to hide her grin. "Yes, Oliver. O' course we have."

I'm not sure why I find this surprising. But the more I think about it the more it makes sense. Since my parents died my guardian was always Patrick, but we were more of a team, but all the same him being older he had that natural responsibility for me that he knew he had to live up to. Then when I got to the Prison, both Pat and I sort of became Carol's responsibility, with both of us being orphans and spending the most time with her in the kitchen and in Story Time, though still, it was only a minor commitment because we were older and could take care of ourselves anyway. But then, when Patrick died, and I escaped the Prison with Rick, I'd sort of become his responsibility because he didn't really have much choice. Then when the Claimers found me, and I escaped, I became Carol and Tyreese's responsibility, whom both I have formed strong relationships to, but it's always been Carol that I've had the strongest relationship towards. I guess even now, with everyone else here, Rick still looks to her for perspective on me.

"I'm proud o' you," Carol smiles. "For talking to me. And I won't say anything to Rick."

I sigh, glad that my cheeks are going back to their normal color. "Thank you."

"Is there anything else you wanted to talk about? Ask?"

I shake my head, "I don't think so. Um, I just, wanted to hear what you thought of it all, I guess."

"Okay, sweetie. I'm glad you did."

I stand up and head to the door. "I'll see you tomorrow morning. I'm probably gonna be out all evening if I sleep now."

"Yeah," she nods, "you okay with getting back?"

"Uh huh, it's only down the hall. And, I've been feeling stronger all day, so, I'm good. Night, Carol."

"Sweet dreams, Oliver," she says with a small smile, nodding and going back to her book.

I leave, walking down the dorm to my room.

It's empty in here. Carl is somewhere around the Hospital with his father and sister, spending some long overdue family time up on the roof or something I think. Whatever it is, I chose not to join, knowing that the three of the Grimes' deserved some time together alone for what'll most likely be the last time in a while. Privacy won't be a virtue on the road.

So I dress into my patient robe, figuring I might as well wear something comfortable before being back on the road in the same set of clothes that I won't be able to change out of in the foreseeable future, trying hard not to think about how much I hate the sound of that, and wondering how I'd gotten so used to it before. But I guess I'll just get used to it again. I guess we all will.

"Fuck, it's cold," I mumble to myself as I climb into the hospital bed, shivering all over as I try to warm up in the crisp sheets.

I lie still for a long time, having trouble drifting off given how early it is, and the fact that Carl isn't here I realise is having an effect on my sleeping as well. _Is that unhealthy?_ Whatever the answer, I know that I sleep easier with him beside me. But I ignore that nagging thought and push it to the back of my head, rolling over on to my good side.

But I still can't sleep.

I flip on the solar light on my bedside table and then grab _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn_. I find a page I vaguely remember reading from back at the suburb house. Which is more difficult than I thought, because I already know how the story ends from what Carol told me and the girls, and I have re-read and gone over chapters too many times now to keep track, and I am sure I have skipped a chapter without realising it. But I find somewhere I remember, near about half way through, accepting that I probably will never read the book properly the whole way through.

Then, I read.

I read for only a little while before my exhaustion creeps up on me and pulls me into slumber, but the last thing I remember thinking of is how much I feel like I'm back at the Prison, sneaking my reads at the books I 'borrowed' from the library as my big brother slept like a rock above me.

**Carl's POV**

"C'mon, it's getting' dark."

I mumble my reluctance to move, scratching at my stomach as I stare up at the almost fully clear night sky, with only a few clouds blowing over head, the stars so bright that they leave tiny retina burns in my eyes when I blink.

"Nice, aren't they?" Dad asks, noticing how mesmerized I am by the natural, twilight canvas.

I nod, glancing at him as he stares up, Judith on his lap, watching something that only she thinks is interesting in the empty, crumbling building opposite Grady.

"Where they always that bright?" I ask.

Dad sort of groans his chuckle, like he's tired, or he's only just realising something, "Not always. No light pollution anymore. What with there being no lights from the City."

I kind of have to guess what light pollution means, but by the context, and remembering talking to Carol about noise pollution once, I figure it out. "That's cool," I mumble.

"Yeah. Jus' about the only good thing outa all this."

"That's not true," I say simply.

Dad glances at me, his brow knitting together, forming a deep crinkle in the centre of his forehead.

"I mean," I glance at him too, pursing my lips. "It's not all bad."

He smiles, "Yeah. I guess not all of it."

Judith babbles in our father's lap, and when he bends down to kiss her forehead she reaches up and grabs at his beard. I laugh as he winces and jerks his head out of her grasp.

"I'm pretty sure I saw an electric razor in the shower room this morning."

Dad grins, "I would, but I don't wanna use up their electricity."

I nod in understanding, "Guess it'd take a lot of electricity to power it long enough to do the job, huh?"

"That boy is a bad influence on you. Damned sarcasm's gonna get you into trouble."

I chuckle as I sit up, leaning over to kiss Judith on the top of her head. "I think we should get back inside now, too."

Dad smiles in agreement, bringing himself to stand up with me and heading back inside and down the staircase the fifth floor.

"Has Oliver had his meds?"

I nod, "Yeah, few hours ago after we ate. He's probably sleeping by now."

"Okay, good. You should go sleep, too."

I nod, getting to the dorm our group has resided in for the past week.

"I'm goin' back to my room - put Judith down 'n' then headin' to bed too."

"Okay, night."

"Night, son. I'll see you in the mornin'."

With that, we go separate ways to our rooms.

The moment I walk in and spot the teenager, I grin madly at the state I see him in, so amused that I can't help the quiet, "Oh my gosh," that escapes my lips.

He's fallen asleep reading, with the novel open and rested on his face.

I go over to him, carefully lifting the hardback book off of him and folding over the page for him, and then going and putting it back into his rucksack. Then I go back to him, gently pulling up his covers to keep him warm before leaning down and pressing my lips to his wavy, brown fringe. With a content smile, I slump back on the chair and flick off the light.

I fall asleep listening to his breathing, wondering, in my last moments of consciousness, if there is any other noise I like hearing more.

**Notes**

I have a surprise for you all! I am going to post a chapter every day this weekend. So that's one today (because I figured why not) one Saturday, and then the last chapter of Stale M&amp;M's on Sunday, _buuuuut,_ I will post the first chapter of the sequel on Sunday, too :) I realised that I have enough chapters for one a week after that to hold the sequel over until a few weeks past season 6 :) so spoiling you all is high on my agenda this week, since you've all been so incredibly supportive! Thank you so much, guys!

The whole, "Children aren't supposed to die before their parents." thing. My mum said all of that to me the other day. I won't go into detail about what we were actually talking about, but it's a quote that I don't expect I'll ever forget.

I'm also finding it interesting how Carol behaves around Oliver. Because we all know that she doesn't _let herself feel it _and she is a total badass and she doesn't take shit from anyone. But in this story, I kinda feel like Oliver is breaking down those barriers. Like when she said about Sophia, and she almost cried. But obviously I'm not about to make her super ooc. But I still like how Oliver effects her, sort of forces out her motherly side without her even meaning to.

**SUPER SPECIAL CHAPTER TOMORROW!**

As always,

Happy reading xxx :_)_


	51. The Closet on the Sixth Floor

**DarthGranola **Yeah, I thought it was funny. I'm sort of trying to make everything super awkward now, because in the future when they aren't so awkward it'll be funny for me to look back at how nervous they used to be together haha And gah, I loved Carol giving him the talk! She was so awesome. I literally just got everything she said off of wikihow XD

**The Flash Fanatic **AW Thank you!

**inazumahunter **Thank you. Yeah, I have sort of realised that Oliver is really good at keeping his cool. But only around the people he knows well, or when something needs to be done, like invading Terminus Territory of shooting a bunch of walkers. But, put him in any other situation, say, a house full of strangers or a room full of new kids *cough, cough, cough, Alexandria, cough!* in _that_ situation, he's gonna be a nervous wreck...

* * *

"**Noisy Sunday" by Patrick Watson**

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

The first feeling I awaken with is discomfort. I haven't moved in a while, so the discomfort is strange and achy. It isn't bad, rather, reassuring. It means I'm healing. Plus, it would've been worse had Steven not woken me up a few hours ago to take my pain medication. I see imaginary shapes in the ceiling until my eyes adjust, working off the natural light of the moon through the window. It makes the room glow in an eerie grey and silver. But it's a peculiar eeriness; not scary or worrying, just odd and mysterious.

A dark outline of Carl Grimes sleeps beside me, curled up on that damned chair he practically lives in now. I wonder where my book is, and foolishly, forgetting that I am, in fact, still recuperating, I try to sit up. But an out-take of air forces my lungs to contract and cough the strange and muffled pain away from my body, so I struggle for a moment, propped on my elbows, wincing through the throb in my left collarbone as it protests to the weight and movement. Then Carl's hands have slipped under me; his cast-hand supporting my head and his good hand taking my shoulders.

"Sorry," I mumble, embarrassed because it really isn't that bad. "I'm okay. Didn't mean to wake you."

He frowns, his glassy blue eyes catching the moonlight when the shift across my expression.

"What, uh... what time is it?" I ask.

He looks at the clock. "Three-thirty in the morning," he answers. He's warm, and his heartbeat is loud. Or maybe everything else is just quiet. _T__humpa-thumpa-thumpa-thumpa_.

"Couple more hours until we leave," I say, and I focus on the white dots of moon in him.

"We don't have to leave for D.C. if you're not strong enough."

I sit up, and once I do I ground my feet on the floor, flexing my toes. The freeze of the lino shoots up my spine and makes me shiver. "I'm okay. See?"

He cocks an eyebrow.

"Can you hand me my clothes, please?" I ask. He does, looking worried. I chuckle. "I'm just being lazy."

He rolls his eyes, and when I'm dressed – weapons and inhaler too, I pull at my beanie, take Carl's hand and pull him to the door.

"Where are we going?" he asks.

". . . On an adventure."

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Once we've snuck past Tyreese and Tara asleep in the waiting area, we make our way into the hallway. I stop when we get to the end of it, asking again. . . "Where are we going, Oliver?"

He puts a finger to his lips and grins. "We're exploring the _tombs._"

"What?" I breathe.

"Like old times."

"Grady's not like the Prison. Remember the elevator?"

"Come on, Grimes," he says. He'd lowered his voice, made it musky and rough. My mouth goes dry. "Don't tell me you're gonna stay in the house _now._"

I frown, say, "You woke up from a coma two days ago."

"I'm fine," Oliver insists, tapping the bandage on his collar bone. "Didn't even hurt."

Yes it did; he'd winced.

"Just a scab," he says anyway. "Pretty soon it'll just be a story."

"Sure."

He sighs, taking my hand again. "I just thought, you know, we're gonna be on the road for a while soon. This might be our last chance in a long time to do something with just the two of us. I don't expect much in the way of privacy on the way to D.C. so, I thought you'd wanna come with."

I'm smiling, not meaning to, but not really doing anything to stop it.

"Come on, young sir," he continues. "Just us."

I inhale, tempted to push forward and wrap myself around him, but instead I just look at him, and he looks at me. But something is different. Good different. It's the same kind of different that we've been sharing together lately, curious and intimate and probably slightly worrying in all honesty, only right now it's stronger. I don't want it to stop.

"We..." Oliver stops to swallow, like he's struggling. Maybe he is? Though he doesn't look in any pain. His voice suddenly sounds full of energy. Anticipating something big and scary and crazy. Ready to explode. "We should get going. That okay, uh, with you?"

I nod, a little ready and willing to throw myself off of a cliff if he asked me to.

We get to the staircase. I stagger against the banister and catch him when he stumbles after me, giggling so much he can hardly stand straight. But he doesn't really need to. He's too busy kissing me. The exhilaration is addictive. Sneaking around. Kissing in the dark. Whispering. Hearts leaping and freezing at every creek or click or tap or cough we hear in the hallways. Finally we climb to the sixth floor, and Oliver is out of breath and aching.

"C'mere," I whisper, pushing the door open into the hallway, steadying him with his back against the wall to catch his breath. He takes a dose of his inhaler, then puts it away, but then he pulls out a single wrinkled cigarette.

"Here I am," he pants, "wheezing my damn lungs up, and I've still got one of those stupid _Marlboro_ cigs in my pocket."

"The _hell_ are you doin' with those?"

"Relax," he rolls it between his fingers. "It's the only one I have left."

"You've been smoking?"

"No, man."

"Then why is it in your pocket?" I hiss.

Oliver shrugs, like, _It's dumb. You'll only think I'm an idiot if I tell you,_ and that is exactly what I'm thinking, and I cross my arms to get that message across. He groans. "I haven't had any. Swear. I don't want to. Not anymore. I gave them to Daryl. I guess I missed this one."

I purse my lips, mildly less outraged, though I don't give him more than that.

"What you_ should_ be worrying about is the fact that we haven't changed pants since then."

My eyes roll.

"My mom," Oliver says after a while, his breathing settled now. "She caught Pat and I once, leaving the house with some of Dad's cigs. She didn't know what we were up to so she let us leave. We thought we were smart for getting past her. But... Mom knew. I know that now. Maybe she didn't know exactly what we were doing but she knew we were doing something we shouldn't, you know? And for a while, I thought, maybe it was because she trusted Pat... but I realise, now, it was me, too... She trusted us both. She knew that we would've talked ourselves out of it."

"She sounds cool," I say quietly.

"That was my mom. She was smart like that."

I take his hand and he gently scratches my cast with his thumbnail.

"If she was still alive," I say. "I think – I _know_ she'd be proud of you."

For a second I think he winces, but rolls his eyes and tells us to get going, so we do, walking for a little while nowhere in particular until we make it all the way through the sixth floor main hallway, turning back to find the staircase again.

"The night before last," I say, staircase doors ahead, "remember what you told me?"

Cigarette still in hand, Oliver frowns, "No."

A nervous swallow tickles at my throat. "You said that I reminded you of my mom."

"Yours?"

"Erm. Yeah."

For a long time, Oliver remains confused. So long that I almost tell him it doesn't matter, to just forget about it, but then, suddenly, like an explosion over every facial feature I can see, realisation hits him like a tonne of bricks. . .

"I was dreaming about her."

I stare.

"Your mom," he goes on, his eyes like two UFOs suspended in space, all beautiful and mysterious and Oliver De Luca. "I dreamed of her for days."

"How'd you know?"

"I... I guess I saw the picture in the Office Blocks."

Pause.

"But, I mean, it was just a bunch of dreams."

"What was she like?" I can't help but ask. "I mean, wh-what were the dreams about?"

"Um, well. I, uh, I can't remember much. Just that I liked where we were. And, she wasn't there a lot." It's like he's remembering as he talks, his expression shifting to all sorts of nostalgia. I watch this happen. "But when she was there we would talk about, well, kinda just everything. She always asked me questions, helped figure out things I was confused about, and sometimes we wouldn't talk at all. Just sit and do nothing. We'd just _be._"

I swallow the lump in my throat and frown at the floor. "Wow," I say quietly. "Sounds jus' like her."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?" I ask.

He tips forward, touching out foreheads, as much as a reply as any.

"I miss talking to her, you know?" I ask, and my hands come up to the hairline on his neck. "It's nice talking about her. Dad doesn't, anymore. I thought I preferred it like that, but it sorta makes me miss her even more sometimes."

"I told her about what you said to me. Your goodbye," he says, and the way he says it makes me feel like it really happened. It makes her feel real, like she isn't just a story after all this time, just for a moment. "I told her about how you wanted me to hear her, and about how I did, and how you did, too. She asked what Judith was like. And I told her, and she asked me what it was like to hold you."

Tears are already welling in my eyes, almost laughing at all of this. "What did you tell her?"

"I told her that holding you is like nothing I have ever felt before," he whispers, embarrassed. "Like every thing wrong in the world is gone, and, it's just you. I said that you make me feel – uh, I've lost the word I used."

I'm kind of crying now.

"Holding me does all that, huh?" I hiccup.

"You have no idea, man."

Our foreheads are still pressed. I wipe my face when too many tears fall, and I start nodding, deciding something important. . .

"The other night," I whisper. "Did you mean it? Do you want to?"

Oliver nods, not even hesitating.

"Me, too. Today. Now."

I can't help the way my voice deepens, the way that my skeleton suddenly feels like it's trying to vibrate right out of my body. There's a reason for all that, too. Because it's back. That brilliant whirring. I can feel the tension between Oliver and I. But it's not an uncomfortable tension, in a sense, just... unsatisfied. I guess it's always been there, especially in the suburb house, but it was such unknown territory that we never understood enough to make anything of it. Back in the Prison we had no idea what it was or how to deal with it either, and what with our own confusion we were both dealing with individually anyway, there was no way we were going to make anything of it until we figured that out first. But all that tension back then. It was just subtle. Almost unnoticeable. Not recently though. No. Recently I've been finding the tension almost unbearable. It's progressed slowly, each time triggered and then gone unsatisfied. To me, it is like an intense craving to get as close to Oliver as possible. To see every corner of his mind. To touch every part of his body. Like a hunger. But the hunger is like nothing I have ever experienced before. It is forever unsatisfied. The more I have of him the more I want. But unlike it being painful and torturous like the hunger I see every day in the walkers or the hunger we all know too well and deal with constantly for food. This hunger, for Oliver? It's good. It's like home.

I love every part of it.  
Every part of him.

His selflessness, his intuitiveness, how he has this _ability_ to understand people just by observing them. I love how he knows me better than I know myself, and I even love the imperfect stuff, like his awkwardness and how neurotic he is, his sarcasm and dry humour, his rude awakenings, and even that damned beanie hat.

"Then what's stopping you?"

Oliver's whisper brings me to collect all my crazy, and a breathy, "Nothing," only just manages to leave me before I close the small gap between us, holding him, and he's holding me, finally. I charge myself on it, that crazy, that lost word, filling up like balloon, ready to burst. I hear the light thud of the cigarette when Oliver drops it, and my hands are up under his shirt, and his are around my shoulders and tangling into my hair. We're catching fire, threatening to set alight the hallway – the entire hospital. I breathe it all in. All the beautiful, crazy, whirring energy, more and more of it until Oliver winces.

I stop, startled, overwhelmed. "Sorry. Did I hurt you?"

"No," he mumbles, and he's kissing me again.

A light suddenly flickers on from the staircase and this time we both startle. Someone heads up the staircase, their shadow casting towards the door.

"Shit."

"What do we do?"

Oliver is shifting in front of me, and when I look at him he's grabbed the door handle to the supply closet. It swings open and I'm suddenly pulled inside. "Close it," he rasps.

Quickly and quietly, I do as he says, and we wait in silence, listening over the blood pounding through our ears. Whoever was wandering the halls heads straight past the sixth floor and on to the seventh. I sigh, pressing my forehead and palms to the door.

"Are they gone?"

I nod into the wood until I realise he can't see me. "Yeah."

He steps closer, and the ends of his fingers touch my jeans.

I chuckle.

"Sorry," he whispers. "I was aiming for you hand."

I turn to him and try to find his, but I also miss, grazing over flannel.

"Here," he whispers, and touches my wrist but I ignore it. "My hand."

"I'm not looking for them anymore."

"W... what're you looking for?"

I don't answer, and I can imagine the coyness on his expression, the blush and the silent grin, and the pause tells me he isn't in protest so I bring my other hand up, both travelling under his shirt. He startles when cold finger touch his skin. I chuckle, press both palms. Oliver gasps.

"Cold?" I ask.

He must nod, but doesn't answer, because the next noise is only our hitching breath and shuffling footsteps. I forget what I whisper to him next in almost the moment I say it, but Oliver nods to whatever I'd said, and then he's pulling off my shirt, we're both kicking off our shoes.

"Aren't you taking off your socks?" I ask him, hesitating to unbuckle my jeans yet.

"No," he says breathlessly, tossing his beanie to the floor.

_Right, _I think, _I forgot you don't even sleep without them on._

I tell myself that this morning is not merely teenage hormones and being rebellious and giving in to temptation, but it probably is, mostly, a lot, almost completely. Because I know that I want this and so does he, and as far as I know that's all there is to it.

"I really wanna see you right now," he explains factually.

So we get to finding a light switch, palming the walls and mumbling things to one another to tell where we are apart from each other. Until finally, the room lights up with that strange, warm, eerie, grey. Oliver's found the window. He's by it now, stood in front of the dirt and mould stained glass, peering out over the city. His silhouette cuts through the light outside, and I walk over to him, taking the opportunity to glance around the small supply closet we've found ourselves in.

It really is small. The room is rectangular, the door parallel to the window on the two shorter sides. Shelves line the right side of the room upon entry. If I stretch my arms I almost touch each wall. But I don't do that, instead, I stand across from him, and for a second we're just looking at each other, nervous and fidgety and covering certain area of ourselves even though it's not necessary. I'm not sure who moves first but what I'm aware of next is that we are kissing, and at one point he staggers into me, or I stagger into him, but either way the shelf is the victim, and my hand juts out to catch us but a stack of paper is thrown off of the shelf and then the whole supply closet is suddenly full of flying white. Oliver and I watch it happen; all the floating sheets scattering down and around us, fluttering and flopping across the floor at our feet –or socks– like drunk birds.

"Oh my God," Oliver laughs.

"Sorry."

I'm knelt on the floor, rushing to grab the paper, cringing and wondering how on earth I'm managing to be so awkward at such a time as this. But Oliver crouches down to me. When he takes my hands I dip my head in embarrassment. When I apologise again Oliver tells me it's fine, and he's grinning. I sit down, apologise again, and Oliver laughs and sits cross-legged in front of me.

"I'm messing everything up," I tell him.

He lifts my cast-hand and kisses the pad of my thumb. I smirk at him, and then he tips forward and kisses my forehead, then the end of my nose, then my mouth. When he starts kissing the crook of my neck he stops and whispers, "No you're not," into my ear. "Swear."

My cheeks heat up.

"What do you want to do?" he asks then.

"Lie down," I answer, and so we do, across the floor, shoulder to shoulder, the backs of our hands pressed and the ends of our fingers weaved. I take a breath, awkwardly scratching my nose, thinking about how the paper I'd dropped everywhere makes the floor a little less freezing.

Oliver is chuckling.

"What?" I ask. He looks at me, purses his lips to stop.

"Nervous."

He'd said it so softly I only saw the word _You're_ before it on his lips.

"I'm not," I frown.

He shrugs. "It's nice. Didn't think you'd be so..."

I shove him in the shoulder (the good one).

"I mean 'cause you're always so sure of yourself. But you're not, really, you're just you... a boy."

Still frowning.

"Just so you know I really like you as just a boy."

Then I'm pushing myself over him, tangling our hands against the floor either side of his face. Oliver almost startles.

"Holy shit," he says.

"You're nervous," I tell him.

"Yeah," he says, swallows. "Guess so."

I chuckle nervously, also kind of relieved. "Have you ever done this before?"

Odd, I've never actually asked him that before. I know he kissed his old best friend once, and Taylor, but I'd never thought to ask about if he might have ever _been_ with anyone.

"No," he answers. "Just a kiss. I've never kissed someone like I kiss you."

"How is it different with me?"

"I'd never actually wanted to."

" Oh. "

Wild.  
Whirring.  
Spinning.  
Pulsating.

Then I'm kissing him.

He tells me he loves me, or maybe I tell him I love him, or maybe both of us say it. Heck, maybe neither of us say it at all. Either way he's pulled off his jeans and then helps me pull mine off, since my cast isn't doing much to help. I'm fidgeting and jittering and mumbling things about the Abraham and the fire truck. Oliver's listening, and for a while he's just curled up against my back with his arms wrapped around me.

"Shh," he coos at one point, dipping his head to kiss the part of my spine directly under my skull. "Relax, Carl."

I might've forgotten to mention that I'm giggling like an idiot. But he's laughing too so it's forgiveable. I feel giddy and embarrassed and ridiculous. "What're you doing to me, Oliver?" I ask.

"I'm not doing anything."

"It's crazy." I'm mumbling. Mumbling so much that I'm amazed he can understand me. "You're not supposed to be able to do this to me without even touchin' me."

He grins. I feel it against my shoulder-blades. "Are you alright? I don't want you to be uncomfortable," he tells me.

"Yeah, no, I'm fine, really. I'm just, you know, excited, and nervous. But it's alright."

"Alright."

I watch him over my shoulder, not really sure if I should start kissing him again.

Oliver smirks. "Gentleman."

I roll my eyes.

"You are."

I look away, grinning madly, wondering if people do that, say that, wondering if people maybe don't, that it's maybe just Oliver, that he's maybe just mad. Mad and brilliant and–

"And your back," he says. "This part." The end of his thumb follows the shallow groove of my spine. "You're really awesome right here."

It takes me a few seconds to realise I'd scrunched up a piece of paper in my hand, so I let go of it, bringing my shoulders up.

"Sorry," he whispers.

I chuckle. "It just tickles."

A pause.

"Carl?"

"M-hm?"

"Is it okay if we take it slow?" he whispers.

I nod, smiling, pulling his hand up and holding on to it. "We don't have to do anything if you don't want to."

"Oh, no, I want to. _R__eally _want to. But, I mean, we just don't have to go all the way yet."

"Sure," I chuckle, turning my head to look at him. "I'm not entirely sure what _take it slow_ or _all the way_ actually means anyway."

"Just go with it," he whispers. "I'll, um, you know, show you. But you gotta tell me if you're uncomfortable with anything. Anything at all."

"Okay," I promise him, twisting myself around to actually face him. "You, too."

For a moment he holds my gaze, and my eyes move to the small, oddly shaped scar of his left temple. My good hand lifts to it, grazing my fingers over the healed wound, then trailing down the thin scar on his lower lip.

"They hurt you," I whisper, not meaning to aloud, and when I turn over to him I see the sadness in his eyes. "I'm never letting that happen to you again."

"Don't think about that," Oliver says, pressing our foreheads, his eyebrows furrowed. "It's over now."

The brave, brave boy.

"Oliver. . ."

He nods.

". . . I want you to make love with me."

Oliver doesn't say anything, instead he inhales as his cracked ribs will allow, his expression intense and thoughtful and deep, but soft and free and open all at the same time. "Um... that's the thing we're not doing."

"Huh? Wha – oh." I laugh. "Sorry."

Oliver laughs, too, "It's the thing with hands."

"I know all about hands."

"Good."

Then his hands are moving towards my underwear, and I'm nodding, my nose brushing his. I look in his eyes and suddenly want to live in their blackness, crawl inside and see the world from there. My own hands are moving, running down the front of his flannel shirt until my fingers catch at the first button, and I choose in the same moment to unbutton it.

Oliver inhales.

I find the next button, asking out loud this time before undoing it, and this time, Oliver nods. So, with a kind of strange curiosity, the early morning goes on, and the events that take place between Oliver and I are... _interesting,_ to say the least, and despite knowing how this works, I'm still lost on what to do on a few occasions; where to put my hands or legs, or if I'm supposed to look or not, and a lot of the time I just try really, _really_ hard not to get caught up in all of him, because what he does to me makes my body twitch and my eyes clamp shut and my arms cling on to him because I'm afraid I'll die, which he finds pretty amusing, or attractive... or worrying. I'm not exactly sure which. I'm not even certain that he knows for sure either. But it's good not knowing. Somehow. In a really awkward and awful and awesome all at the same time kind of way. Though, I'm sure I really am about to die when it suddenly isn't just Oliver's hands that become involved in it all.

Because that's something else.

Entirely.

But in a really really good way.

Even so, I still worry I won't do it right or that I'll mess up or hurt him, and I tell myself that I've got things wrong with me that'll make him think badly of me, but Oliver is just as nervous, and on top of that I know that regardless of time and circumstance there are some things that are simply impossible for either of us to forget or not think about, and so at one or two points we almost stop, both of us overwhelmed and awkward and so incredibly in love with each other.

But we don't stop.

We can't.

We don't want to.

So we keep going.

We've never shared this. Something so fast and intense and muddled and enticing and emotional all at the same time. Maybe close, but nothing ever compared, and it's okay, in the end. No, it's better than okay. Amongst the kissing and touching and encouraging whispers and stifled moans –which are supposed to be words somewhere deep inside our minds before the _everything-we're-doing_ takes it all away– all things considered, I'd say Oliver and I do pretty well for ourselves.

* * *

**Notes**

As you hopefully got from this chapter, it was just really important that their intimacy and care for each other was really, really, really clear. Consent was very important also, hence why they kept making sure the other was alright with what they were doing. What with the sexual abuse they both had experienced, it was really important that it was what they wanted from each other. And you know, it had to be realistic, awkward at times from their age and innocence and lack of experience, but something fun and exciting for them to discover with each other.

Hope it did them justice. Xx

Last chapter next.

As always,  
Happy reading xx :_)_


	52. A Dead City Left Behind

**DarthGranola **XD thank you!

**BurningFirBird **Ah, thank you x

**The Flash Fanatic **Thank you, you're support throughout has been amazing!

**Guest **Ah, Alexandria, Ron, Enid and Mikey, and even Sam, Jessie, Deanna, Reg and Pete, have literally been the funnest things for me to write. Seriously, where this story goes with the boys and the Alexandrian teens has been so fun. Maybe everyone will disagree, but I'm so excited to let you all read it xx Just out of interest, do you (or anyone reading this) actually _want _there to be some jealousy between them? And if so, with who?

* * *

**Carl's POV**

We almost fall asleep like we are, so spent and content that nothing else even seems to matter. So we just lie on the floor together –sprawled rather indignantly, really, but neither of us care, we're just letting everything finally calm and settle. I'm drifting. I know I am. It's only when Oliver places a kiss on my chest that I come to a little more.

"Don't fall asleep," he whispers softly, bringing me back from the temporary Nirvana we've just created together. I still emerge from it reluctantly, frowning into the top of his head. Oliver pokes me, chants, "_CarlCarlCarlCarl._"

"I'm awake."

He looks up, cups my cheek, pulls to plant a kiss on my lips. I don't really kiss him back, just sort of watch him, smiling into him. He opens his eyes, too, _watching watching watching._ Then Oliver laughs.

"What?" I ask, frowning, laughing, too.

"Nothing."

"_What_?" I ask again. "Why're you laughing?"

He bites his lower lip, averting his eyes, "It's just..." He grins, looking at me. "Do you always, make that face, when you...?" My cheeks suddenly flush, and Oliver laughs again.

"Shut up!"

"No, no," he mumbles. "It's not bad or anything. Really, it's not. I just, wasn't expecting you to look so... _focussed._"

"Oliver, _stop._"

He lets out a hum, chuckling. "Love you."

I press my palm over his face. "You too, dork," I say, and Oliver chuckles, coughing a little. I let go. "Oliver?"

"Hmm?" he croaks, coughing again into his wrist.

"Do you need your inhaler?"

"Yeah," he answers, smiling, so I reach over and retrieve the medication from his jeans pocket.

"Here," I say, handing it over, starting to dress myself.

"Thanks," he says, but doesn't take it.

"You okay?"

He nods, watching me, and I can't help but look at a few beads of perspiration that've formed over his forehead and neck and collarbones, his hair sticking in damp, dark clumps over his eyebrows and ears, starting to evaporate now.

"I wanna try something," he says... coy? He sits up, pulling on his underwear. Then he squares up to me, still wheezing. I'm smiling, confused, watching him guide his inhaler towards me. "Don't breath it in," he whispers, "just, hold it in your mouth, okay?"

Trying not to laugh, I nod, letting him go ahead, and when he sprays it the medication is cold and bitter and it makes me flinch. Not exactly the nicest thing in the world, so I grimace.

"Gross, huh?" I nod, trapping the Ventolin in my mouth. He shuffles closer, "Okay..." I just sort of stare at him, my cheeks hollowed with the bitter medication hugging my tongue, most likely looking like a complete idiot. But then he kisses me, grazing his open lips against my closed. "Breathe into me," he whispers softly against my pressed lips. "Slowly."

I understand now, so I do as asked, exhaling, and he inhales. Only a little of the cold Ventolin he isn't quick enough to breathe spills from our mouths, making contact with our sensitive, damp skin before saturating into the air around us, like cigarette smoke. Only, this stuff aids breathing rather that hinders it.

"It worked," he states, pulling away, taking a deep breath to prove it.

"I think you should take your inhaler like that all the time from now on."

He chuckles, and I kiss him again, chuckling, and then just sighing, because he's holding me and stroking his thumb over my shoulder. He glances around us, and I look, too, seeing the rest of our clothes strewn across the room, the paper crumpled on the floor.

"I, uh. I think we should tidy up a little," Oliver suggests, "before Grady starts waking up."

So we tidy up around the closet together, collecting our clothes and picking up all of the paper, placing it back on the shelf. Bar the few sheets that are too crumpled or soiled by sweat (and other bodily fluids that our activities had created) to put back, which we simply scrunch up into a ball until further notice, also taking the opportunity to cool off and clean ourselves up a little –what with our messy, tangled hair and flustered skin.

"Sorry about those," Oliver says when we're on our way to the showers, meaning it.

"What?" I ask curiously. He moves behind me, gently pulling the collar of my shirt down, kissing my nape. I'd been aware of the dull stinging there for a while, but I hadn't paid much attention to it. "Wait... Oliver, did you...?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry," he apologises guiltily. "I didn't realise I was doing it," he mumbles against my skin, walking with me. "I couldn't really... control anything."

I turn around and kiss him, wrapping my arms around him in the middle of the hallway. "It's okay," I assure softly. "I kinda liked it." I didn't sound nearly so strange in my head as if does aloud. Oliver can't help his grin, or the flush in his cheeks. "Like you with your books."

"I don't have a damn book fetish," Oliver says the same thing he has said what feels like the hundredth time by now. But he smirks, pressing his forehead to mine. "I have a_ You_ fetish." Then I'm kissing him again. We only stop when we hear someone walking down the corridor. "Come on," Oliver whispers, "Let's go."

* * *

By now, the first traces of morning is breaking out over Atlanta, the golden shards of sunlight threatening to splash over the dark blue sky soon. Oliver and I showered. We almost considered showering together, but choose against it when Oliver pointed out a few things that neither of us would probably be able to resist doing together if we did. We didn't have the time or the luck to get away with it a second time today. So we showered quickly and headed back to Oliver's room. Though, we might've over looked one thing.

Sneaking out was simple. Yes. But sneaking back in? _That_ comes with its own problems. Because as Oliver peers into the waiting room to see if the coast's clear, he freezes, suddenly wheeling himself around to stop me, and I knock into him. It hurts him so much that he almost collapses.

"Sorry," I apologise worriedly, setting him steady again. "What're you doing?" Oliver is genuinely panicking, his expression tense, cussing under his breath. "Oliver?"

"I'm fine."

"What was that about?"

"Tara," he whispers nervously, "she's awake." It seems we'd spent a little more time in the sixth floor supply closet than we thought. "Shit," Oliver hisses quietly. "_Shitshitshitshit._"

I frown, "Well, I mean, it's no fuss."

"She'll figure out we were gone," he whispers, and I can feel his heart racing ridiculously too fast.

"So?" I ask. "It's Tara. She won't say anything."

"It's not just that," he whispers. "It's the whole privacy thing. If we can't even get it here, then we sure won't ever get it out there."

I sigh, quickly leaning in and pressing my lips to his, so quickly in fact that he doesn't have time to respond, which he momentarily looks like he'll protest to. "Then we'll cross that bridge when we get to it," I say before he does. Oliver remains uneasy, plus ever-so-slightly disgruntled that I had pulled away so fast. "Look," I whisper, though, before I finish my sentence I'm kissing him again, long enough for him to kiss me back. It occurs to me in this moment that I'm really just as disgruntled as he is, too, because for a long time I don't pull away. Like my body can sense that we're about to spend the next few weeks (longer maybe) unable to be this close around the other. Finally, I manage to pull away. Oliver's panting. "Sorry," I apologise, breathless. "I think I needed that."

He grins, "What were you gonna say?"

I swallow. "That, uh. I'll go in and get our things. If she asks I'll say you're in the cafeteria."

Oliver smirks, impressed.

"Are you alright getting down there?"

"Uh-huh. I think you've done wonders for me this morning," he says, sarcasm, jest and truth all jumbled up at once in his sentence.

I blush madly, and then my lips are buried into his one last time in I don't know how long. We seem to realise this together, because the kiss becomes more passionate – more meaningful, and it takes a few _several_ moments for us to finally pull away.

"I'll see you down there," I whisper, pressing our foreheads, and my hat lifts against Oliver's skull. He nods, and with one last –really last– kiss, I pull away and walk into the waiting room.

"Hey," Tara greets me.

"Mornin'." I'm in Oliver's room now, closing the door behind me. That wasn't suspicious, was it? No. No, that was easy. I nailed that. So I quickly go about collecting all of mine and Oliver's things, eventually leaving the room with a full backpack on my shoulder, a gun on my hip, and his holsters and weapons in my free hand, double checking that I didn't forget his pun book or Tom and Huck or Mika's bracelet or Lizzie's watch before I go.

"Uh, hello?"

"Oh." I snap my head around to look at Tara, the sarcasm in her voice shooting me with anxiety. "Oh, uh?" I kind of ask, confused. "Hey."

"What's the rush?" she asks, cocking an eyebrow.

Heart pumping faster. "Nothin'. Jus' on my way down to the cafeteria to find everyone."

"Cool, I'll come with. Oliver sleeping in for a little longer?" she asks dismissively, seemingly unsuspicious.

"Nope," I answer, "he's down there already."

Now she stops, frowning. "Oh, I didn't see him leave. Wait, actually, I didn't see either of you leave. Your dad decided to let you both sleep in for a while."

I tighten my fist around the red and black strap of Oliver's rucksack, shrugging, faking my disinterest to the topic, when in actual fact I'm about ready to catch my heart when it decides to leap out of my throat and run away with itself, half expecting to have to chase it down and force it back into my chest.

"We left pretty early this morning to wash. His sleeping pattern's pretty out of whack, and, I mean, what with his coma and all, he's had a lot of time to sleep anyway." Tara smirks, but I can't tell if it is from my joke or because she knows I'm lying through my teeth. "Where's Tyreese?" I ask.

"He left a little while ago to go help load the truck." There is a pause, one in which my grip tightens around the strap on my shoulder. "C'mon," she chirps finally, casually motioning out of the waiting room. "Let's go eat."

* * *

In the cafeteria, Carol, Judith, Sasha, Noah, Father Gabriel and Eugene are gathered at a table. I instantly notice the distinct lack of De Luca in the room, quickly asking where he is, and Sasha tells me he went to the bathroom, so I relax, taking a seat opposite her and Carol, the latter tending affectionately to my little sister. I don't eat, in fact, none of us do, for one, only a few Grady residents are here, and so they aren't serving much, and two, we're still trying to use as little of Grady's resources as we can. It's clear that they aren't _charging_ like they used to, but, given their reputation, we want to get out of their way as soon as possible with as little impact as possible.

Then Judith squeals loudly. So loudly and suddenly that anyone within a ten foot radius of her startles. "What's up with her?" Tara asks. I know why. . .

"Hey, Oliver."

Judith squeals over me. The two's relationship is stronger now than it ever has been. He waves at her, making his promisingly sturdy way over to us. He greets us, sitting beside me. I welcome the contact of his warm shoulder against mine, smiling at him, quietly asking how he is, getting a nod and a courteous hand squeeze back.

I hand my sister over to him, and they greet each other with their usual smiles and silent eye contact that speaks louder to them than cooing or baby talk ever could. Oliver's attention shifts to Eugene, noticing the subtle yet somehow obvious gap between all of us and the man. Bar Tara, who seemingly has nothing against Eugene, sat beside him. I think all of us have just about accepted his lie. But it's definitely left an extreme dent in our relationship with him. Regardless Oliver smiles at him, earning a small, grateful nod from the man. It occurs to me that Eugene might have actually been worried about how Oliver would react when he found out. It's obvious that Oliver wasn't going to react the same way Abraham did; sending the fake scientist into a three day coma with a hard punch to the face –Eugene still has the bruise, but Oliver's acceptance still seems to mean a lot to him.

It's Gabriel who speaks next. "How are you feeling this morning, Oliver?"

"Really good, sir," Oliver answers politely. He was going to say Father, but he couldn't.

"And you two, Noah and Carol?"

They both nod, mumbling _good_'s and _alright_'s at the same time.

For a few minutes we all just talk amongst ourselves, going over what supplies we have, how long everything should last, what routes we're going to try to make towards Richmond. Until my father comes into the cafeteria.

"Let's go," is all he says.

* * *

We're on the ground floor, in the parking lot. Steven's here, seeing us off I guess. He smiles solemnly at me, extending his hand, and I shake it gratefully. "Take care, Carl."

"Thank you," I tell him sincerely, "for everything."

He nods, turning to Oliver, shaking his hand, too. "Stay safe," Steven instructs him. "Change your bandage every day and take your antibiotics and pain killers. And make sure Carl keeps that cast on until he's healed."

"Yes, sir."

With a nod, Oliver and I head to the fire-truck.

"You sure, none o' your people want to come with us," we hear Dad ask the doctor, out respect rather than thinking he'll accept. "We don't know what'll be in Virginia for sure, but, can't say we don't owe it to y'all to try."

"No," Steven answers solemnly. "We're staying. With no Dawn, it's alright here. We'll be okay. Thank you though, Rick. And good luck, to all of you." Dad nods, climbs into the passenger seat beside Rosita and Abraham, and Stevens heads back into Grady with no more farewells.

Oliver and I are sat beside each other in the back of the truck, Tara and Michonne opposite, quietly watching everyone else climb into the vehicle with us. The engine grumbles to action, and we drive, leaving Grady Memorial Hospital, stocked with all the supplies we'd collected on our runs and enough pain killers to sedate an entire army –which was our _reward_ for ending their old leader's life and their condolences for our fallen family member.

The truck engine's the only noise we hear as we drive, leaving Atlanta. The mood? It's simple and calm and comfortable. We aren't letting ourselves expect much. But we aren't giving up either. We're just here as a unit, a family, watching quietly as the last traces of the dead City hiding a community inside of it is left behind us, until finally, we're so far away that the last traces of skyscrapers dip under the horizon and trees, as if the City itself is hiding away from the world, and so, we begin our journey.

Richmond, Virginia is our target. Getting Noah home to Shirewilt Estates, for Beth. Depending on our success, there're two different outcomes. The first, a new home for us to live and be safe for a little while longer –because you can't stay in one place anymore, not for long. The second, if Shirewilt's not there anymore – if it's gone, we'll just keep going. Keep surviving.

But wherever we do find ourselves it's going to be okay. We have each other, and anyway, in the end. . .

Everything works out the way it's supposed to.

* * *

**Notes**

The End :D

So, yeah, you finally made it to the end of Stale M&amp;M's.

Thank you all so much for this amazing opportunity to share this! It was so much fun!

Don't miss the sequel, **The Easy Part**. The first chapter is up now :) head to my profileand check it out? Please don't forget to leave a comment to tell me what you thought of this story, it would mean the world to me xxx

Stay beautiful, and as always,  
Happy reading xxx :_)_


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